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The World is a High School Lunch Room

With all of this talk about Syria, I’ve got to thinking about global issues, and today I stumbled upon a very startling realization: The world is pretty much just a lunch room in a high school called Earth.
I mean, you have your awkward geeks. The ones over there, eating the tater tots and fiddling with zippers on their too-big jackets. Their names are Africa and South America. The kids who try to buy nice clothes and fit in. The problem with them is that they don’t understand how to wear the cool clothes, or put on the cute makeup and so everything they do sort of ends up messy. Everyone in the lunchroom tries their hardest to ignore them, but sometimes it’s so sad that Europe and America walk past and pat them on the head and lets them have some Cheetos.

That posse of girls over there? The ones who all look strikingly similar—blond hair, long legs, short skirts? That posse is called “Europe.” The head blonde is named Britain, but it’s really hard to distinguish Britain from the rest of her posse, so everyone ends up calling all of them Europe. It’s just easier.
Britain was the most popular girl in middle school, but much to her dismay, America learnt how to apply makeup over the summer, and now America’s the coolest high schooler around. So Britain did what every washed up popular girl does when someone better than them comes on the scene—she made friends with America. Secretly, though, Britain and the rest of her posse hate America, and they’re all waiting for a chance to get back at her.

America is the super popular girl with the expensive clothes from all the best stores. She buys all of her clothes on her dad’s credit card (she doesn’t really understand the concept of ‘paying people back’) and she sticks her nose into everyone’s drama. Afghanistan is having a fight with her best friend? America’s right there, trying to make things better. Syria’s got a problem? You can bet that America is first in line to give helpful advice, fluttering her mascaraed eyelashes pityingly. Little does she realize that most of the time, she’s only making things worse.

Back in the corner of the lunch room sit Canada, Australia, the Netherlands, and a couple of other people. They’re the shy kids who wear glasses and observe everything with a quiet, unassuming air. Whenever there’s a problem and you look at them, they sort of shrug helplessly. “You don’t actually think that we’re going to get involved in anything, do you?” They say with their wide, innocent eyes.

There are the bristly boys who sit in the corner and punch each other for fun—Cuba and North Korea. They like to make really big threats and puff out their chests so that everyone knows that they’re a big deal and you should be very afraid of them, but they never really do anything except scowl at you.

The guy in the baggy pants and cap slinking around the room like a fox is Mexico, the school’s resident drug dealer. He likes guns. He and America are always flirting, but behind his back America gossips about how gross Mexico is.

And finally, turn your attention to those bitter, pudgy girls over there, fluttering over America? That’s China, South Korea, and Japan. They’re America’s posse. China and America have this love-hate relationship where China gives America cute clothes and makeup, and America accepts them graciously and wears them, but is just waiting for the day China stabs her in the back. America has a similar relationship with Japan and South Korea, but not too many people know about it, and when America shows up with a new shirt from Hollister, people just assume that China gave it to her.
And all of these people eat lunch in the same lunch room every day, co-existing as best as they know how.




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