Consequences of Drugs.

Essay by lolo04x@aol.comHigh School, 11th gradeA+, November 2003

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I poured most of the cans contents onto a leaf of cigarette paper rolled it into a crooked joint, and promptly smoked down to the roach. This was my everyday routine. I'd wake up early just to do this. I'd sometimes think it was sad, but I thought to myself, everyone who doesn't do this is sad. How can people get up and go to a place for 8 hours a day and listen to people tell them what to do and how to do it? I had to do it my way. This way tucking in my shirt doesn't bother me. I rose above that with my silent protest to the school system in America. To the lame parents and teachers everywhere.

First class, psychology. This is the only class I would ever take voluntarily. But then again, I'd rather drop dead than have to listen to this guy for more than 10 minutes.

Frankly, I was surprised he got hired. That's where my morning activities kick in; to help me take my mind off this crap. I should be hired instead of him. He asks me a question. I'm not paid enough to engage in that kind of commitment, or paid at all for that matter. I start to wander off. What if I was paid to come to this hell hole? I don't think I'd come. Maybe if the covered my expenses for pot. Then I'd come. That's the life. That's my dream. My dream is the truth. A gram everyday before class. The bell rings. His last words before I have a chance to leave are, "now that you know what happens to young children don't become excess drinkers." Why won't you use the word alcoholics? 45 minutes and 15 seconds of my life just...