If my parents lived my life for a day, they would understand the hell I go through with each passing hour.  They would understand the depressive atmosphere of my mind as well as our house each morning as I understand it.  They would know why I oversleep and how hard it is to drag my limbs out of bed and dress them up to look halfway socially acceptable.  They would understand why I don’t have any interest in going through the motions of another day--lifeless and dulled.

They would then have the pleasure of proceeding in the direction of school--via the agonizing drive in preparation of returning to the hell on earth--and they would be in complete awe of my schedule; two AP classes accompanied by a full senior schedule.  They would meet my teachers and realize how indignant spanish teachers can be in the morning.  The clouds of gossip engulfing the hallways and classrooms would open their eyes to the caddiness. Curse words would pile into their ears one after another and they would encounter their epiphanous moment coming into sheer understanding of my language. Their eyes will be opened to the girls--the girls who pry each other apart with each passing word. 
Connie would meet them at the door to my fifth period class with a half-ass smile.  The smile though, is quickly alternated into a frowned glare as she they haven’t done their anatomical crap for the day--this is the part when they start to question the essence of my education as she starts to babble on in regards to their inability to follow directions.  Then they would hit lunch time, my favorite part--most likely their least favorite. 
With what energy is left, they would crawl in my car parked in the same space they left it only to turn around to see five high school aged boys packed straight across the three-seater bench, punching and cursing at each other.  The drive to lunch would be filled with irritation and hunger, because they have third lunch and didn’t have time to eat breakfast as a result of waking up a half hour late--again.  They would eat their lunch--probably something fried--and they would fly back to school in hopes of not getting pulled over because your school’s administration isn’t permitted to give you ten more measly minutes to indulge yourself in a break from the chaos.  They would scurry through the hallways and find their seat in their AP Psychology class.  Then the notes would begin and they question not only how in the hell I take the notes which move at the speed of light but how I retain even a section of the information I am provided.
Following AP Psychology would come journey up from the basement once they get through the cluster-f*ck of the stairwell and travel past the group of friends who are too close to call friends and they would arrive to my AP Stats class where the stereotypes of high school are presented in full force.  They would see the Asians, the cheerleaders, the jocks, the outcasts and the stereotypical gossip and kids tearing other kids of lesser social popularity apart, teasing them, and making them feel as worthless as a bag of dirt.
  At this point, they are done. They are ready to hand in my letter of resignation. They are ready to go home.  Once at home though, they have to start their journey in preparation of the day ahead of them.  They’ll get home, eat half a bag of chips or so, and then pull out their books and hit them hard only to have a mental breakdown in reaction to each and every distraction going on around them.  So much to do and so little motivation to do any of it.  If my parents lived the life of me for a day, they would gain an understanding of why I don’t do homework.  The lack of drive would become evident and they would understand the lifeless glare behind my gaze upon reality.  They would understand my view of the world being a hell on earth.  If they lived my life for a day, they would sympathize my pain.