I read the news today, Oh Boy.

In the year below me at school, there are two refugee boys from Afghanistan. They joined the school last term, and are very unfamiliar with our culture. I don't want that to sound patronising. It's just true- for example, neither of them can speak english.
The school bulletin this morning described how a group of boys in my year took it upon themselves to attack these boys. Attack. That was the word that was used. It makes me feel sick.
Of course, I am and angry and disgusted. They made victims of people who were in need of looking after; people who were under circumstances that are likely to make them feel nervous or vulnerable; people younger than them. The frustrating thing is that I'm not surprised. My year group is notorious for acting like this. I really do love people, but I don't know how to relate to people like these, even though they're people I'm surrounded by every day. I know that I don't have the capacity to justify doing something like that and I don't know how to understand people who do these things.
Everyone has a sob story. Everyone has a secret that could break your heart. But sometimes, it doesn't matter.
In three years, I will have left school. In ten years, I doubt many of the people at my school, other than my friends, will be able to remember me. A lot of the time, I am frustrated with myself for being so inhibited at school, but occasionally, like right now, I'm very glad to be apart.

The song Two by The Antlers is amazing but so, so sad.

You had a new dream, it was more like a nightmare.
You were just a little kid, and they cut your hair,
then they stuck you in machines, you came so close to dying.
They should have listened, they thought that you were lying.
Daddy was an asshole, he fucked you up, built the gears in your head,
now he greases them up. And no one paid attention when you just stopped eating. "Eighty-seven pounds!" and this all bears repeating.