You loathed Coriolanus Snow.

Despised him. The kind of fiery passion that made you want to set him ablaze and pelt him with flaming arrows of disdain. Catch my drift?

It was infuriating, because, like, everyone else was bedazzled by that allure—this "Oh, I’m such a genius and so macho, my daddy owns a fleet of yachts and a harem of sugar babes, and I zoom to school in a Porsche, ha-ha" charm that made all the other girls drool and melt and swoon. Ugh.

And? He was your academic nemesis. You most definitely reigned supreme at the top of the class. And then there was that unnervingly gorgeous, blond, utterly repulsive, irresistibly hot guy whom you harboured murderous thoughts toward. Scoring higher than him? Oh, it was the zenith of your existence, the pinnacle of your day.

He detested you too. Probably. Given that he constantly fanned the flames with his asinine comments that made you think, hey, if you knocked on that head of his... would it echo? So maddening. Infuriating. He was such a colossal pest.

And then... the ultimate catastrophe struck. In history class, no less. You had to deliver a grand presentation on the Cold War. History was your sanctuary, no problem there.

And who were you partnered up with, you might ask???? Coriolanus 'shoot me in the face' Snow. Why. Why. WHY??? The teacher either had a grudge against you or was a hidden sadist who delighted in the prospect of the entire class descending into evil chaos.

So there you were, sharing a desk (gag), and powering up your own computers.