A true high school story includes every emotion under the sun. It includes looking up at that sun and absorbing the warm radiance. It includes wondering why you have to see that sun for another day. It includes love and angst and confusion and confidence and self-pity and loathing and loneliness and acceptance and happiness.

I’ll admit it: I’m high-strung. It’s my greatest flaw. It is also my greatest strength. I think too much, I worry too much, and I have trouble rolling with the punches. However, I also savor those sweet “life is beautiful” moments more than other people. High school contains both punches and precious, happy moments. For me, the split is 50/50.

Every once in a while, I get a few weeks when I want to explode, cry, die, and run away all at once. In one case, I had an AP exam, two music competitions, and daily rehearsals for my first paid gig as a drummer – all in one week. This, of course, was on top of nightly homework, tests, clubs, constantly getting screwed over by my peers, and that distant memory called sleep. I was a mess. I was under so much pressure, I constantly felt like I was going to crumple up into the size of a few molecules, the way matter does inside a black hole. (Astrophysicists call that “spaghettification.”) A major side effect was being unable to decide whether to persevere or say “screw it,” slam the door, and go to sleep on top of the blankets while still wearing my clothes. It’s quite the paradox, actually. Being unable to make that decision only adds to the pressure, further spaghettifying you until you can’t see straight.

Despite these rough times, I often find myself in the most amazing moments – the type that are so overwhelmingly perfect that I begin to feel sad then and there because I realize that I will never get the moment back again in my life.

One of my favorite examples is pit orchestra. In spring of sophomore year I played drums for my school’s production of “The Drowsy Chaperone.” I had performed many times before, but for some reason there was a special feeling that opening night. Everything was great. I felt good. I looked good. I was so effervescently excited that I noticed how sweet the air tasted. And best of all, I knew the musical cold. I was ready to sit at my drum throne and be the engine that powered the production.

I stretched my forearms one final time and sat. The house went dark. As we played the overture, I was in my element; I remembered what my passion is. I reveled in the fact that, unlike most, I have known since I was eight what I want to be when I grow up. As I sat there pounding away in that sensational moment, I was happy to be me. I was happy to be in high school. I was happy to be busy. And most importantly, I was ever so grateful for the simple truth that I was alive.

Anyone who says “high school is a roller coaster” is a liar, and anyone who doesn’t object to that cliché is an imbecile. Those people can come talk to me when they find a roller coaster that includes love, angst, confusion, confidence, self-pity, loathing, loneliness, acceptance, and happiness.

Oh, and spaghettification.