September 5, 20XX

This club is seriously the best. After that pop quiz in fourth period, being able to just chill here in this separated, otherworldly room is just the best. If you're wondering, I aced that quiz,

Well, I'm pretty sure I passed,

Nah, I probably failed it, who am I lying to. How am I supposed to remember what our teacher's three dogs' names are... AND their favorite bedtime stories. The wild thing is that my classmates didn't seem as troubled as me. As expected of Palomar. Truly a school for the elite.

I can't seem to get a break, but that's not surprising. I am well aware of the challenges before me, and in the past I was much tighter on this kind of stuff. I used to be more conscientious, more extroverted, more "pleasant" to be around... I think I'm much better now, though I wish I still preserved some of that academic vigor which possessed me my freshman and sophomore years. Diligence is desirable, but if by some randomly construed hand of inconvenient plot events I must not only be restored to my former studiousness but also to my former undercut glory in some nasty inseperable coupling of fate then I would seriously hesitate to consider. I've come to realize through maturation and osmosis that every guy and his dog has an undercut. Even Pickles has one! (One of the teacher's dogs, I later recalled).

That is not a joke. He showed us pictures in Microsoft Powerpoint 2007 (please update your software).

Anyway, I went on a tangent. The Going-Home Club.

As I am, I'm still pretty good with my grades. It didn't take me long to figure out that everyone at this school is hella smart. Like really hella smart. The average GPA is a 3.6 weighted. It's unbelievable. That's what makes me extremely curious and somewhat fearful of Claire. As it stands, I keep my GPA around that average with minimum effort, and I keep my nose out of anything that breathes work, but even I know about the competition of the upper ranks. To go beyond is to enter a cutthroat bloodbath of brains. Smart kids are freakin scary.

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That begs the question: what is a girl like her doing here, in the Going-Home Club? I can't imagine her having a secret lazy side, not with her results. I decided to ask her.

Behold! My special ability! BLUNTNESS.

- Pros: avoid needless misunderstandings and wasted time playing the grey zone.

- Cons: can make people uncomfortable if played wrong, can make you look like a dunce with no social IQ.

The cons I don't worry about so much.

When I asked her, she just said that she likes having a place to rest, and nothing more. She looked a little uneasy. I didn't probe any further.

Speaking of not probing: Mark. He also seemed more irritated than usual today. When he entered, he stomped straight to his seat. He glared outdoors, at the bright, glowing school naturescape. He tapped angrily on his phone. He furiously prepared three cup noodles to slurp while writing in his journal. His scowl is normally amazing, but today it's a work of wonder. Here's a haiku I thought up about it.

Mark's scowl is like the

Sun. It's intense, blazing, yet

stunning to behold.

I took massive liberties with that one, forgive me. It's the effort that counts!

All in all, he's giving off "don't bother me, you imbeciles" vibes so I left him alone. However, I have a feeling it's not straight irritation. He also seems uneasy, in a different way.

I'm a little uneasy too. If I'm honest, those chairs are getting me hyped. I referenced it yesterday, jokingly, but now I'm actually looking forward to it a little. Mr. Kafka's been really selling it. He probably just has nothing better to talk about.

Such is the Going-Home Club. It's a strange place. Word intended.

It's not a bad place, though.

Yikes. I'm writing much more than I thought I would. I'm getting carried away. I joined so that I could relax, right? Well, then again, this type of writing isn't that bad. I don't know who I'm writing to or what I'm really writing about, but being able to put my thoughts onto paper is surprisingly therapeutic. It's an awkward but healing process. Plus, having a record of my ordinary senior days doesn't sound that bad. We do that with our camera rolls anyway. The good ol' shutter to capture a moment. Moments are precious things.

Mr. Kafka just returned. He went out of a little to look for water to refill the Keurig, or so he claimed. He came back with cupcakes (Mark and I passed).

Alrighty. Time to go home.