Complexities
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror of my top-of–the-line red sports car (which by the way, has caused a couple of neck accidents along the way. Hey, it's not my fault that people can't seem to keep their eyes off my car!) for the umpteenth time: professionally-done make-up, silky smooth blue hair tied up in a smart pony tail (I have long ago ditched my pigtails, thank you very much), and cute Prada shades. I gaze down at myself: crisp, professional white button-down shirt, black, stylishly skinny jeans, and a pair of turquoise pumps. Smart casual and hot. Perfect. Sooo… why does it feel like butterflies have taken permanent residence in my stomach, why are my hands so shaky and clammy, and most of all, why the heck have I been sitting inside my car for the past 32 minutes, 45 seconds? For goodness' sake, Bulma, it's just school!
Ah, well, you see that's the problem, it's just school, the place where parents trustingly send their kids in the hope that their little people would learn something and grow up and be someone in the future. What the parents didn't realize is that they are also sending their little lambs to be slaughtered by the wolves, so to speak. The wolves are the bullies, those kids who pick upon the younger, smaller, weaker, stupider, uglier and in my case, extraordinary kids.
I don't have confidence issues, far from it actually. I'm smart, beautiful and rich; I'm bloody perfect and I know it. Practically, I am a goddess among mortals and, a princess among paupers, if you wanted to be whimsical. But sometimes (very rare times, mind you), I can't help but want to be just like everyone else, someone who blends in with the crowd, to be a part of the crowd. And one of those moments is middle school. While everyone else was struggling to memorize their multiplication tables, I was working on derivatives and functions with my dad, who taught me everything I know, except on how to "spread my wings and fly like a social butterfly". Yep, that's my mom's words of blonde wisdom for you.
Hence, I was sent to public middle school like any other normal kid (as if). And that was when my 'dark days' started. Everyone knew who I was: the sole heiress to the Briefs' multi-zenni company, genius extraordinaire and child prodigy, the co-creator of the highly functional and revolutionary capsule technology. And thus, everyone had a highly biased, skewed idea of me as a spoiled brat (hmmm, wonder why?): the principal and teachers tried to befriend me to get my dad to provide finances for the school; the utility people followed me around for free or discounted capsules; the Journalism Club stalked me around for photos and information about me which they can sell to the media; the middle school Barbies played BFF's with me just so they can get to my awesome wardrobe; and the school jocks merely wanted to get in my pants and brag about a rich girlfriend. And the best part, the bullies thought that I deem myself to be above everyone just because I'm rich and smart, and thus, I was considered fit to be bullied. The situation deteriorated to the point that my parents nearly had the school closed for, errr, never mind. Anyway, I was home-schooled from then on, by the best teacher there could possibly be, my dad.
Oops, now I've just wasted 57 minutes, 29 seconds and classes start in about 11 minutes. Time to man up, Bulma girl (paradox much? man up-bulma girl, got it? no? oh, never mind) and enter the lions' den as I face the red, brick, neo-colonial building in front of me. Maybe, just maybe, kids in college would be friendlier and more open-minded, especially to a teacher as hot as I am. Oh, did I forget to mention? With more honorary degrees to my name than the total number of fingers in a normal person's hands and feet, I am more than qualified to take my place as a temporary college engineering professor.