I'm sitting in my classroom. It's 4:09. BLURG. I'm here until 6:30 giving a practice AP English 12 exam. The real test is in a few weeks. I have a cold. Or something. SNIFF SNIFF. You know what's the SNIFF worst part about proctoring a SNIFF full-exam for students? Listening to them go SNIFF SNIFF the whole time. But here I sit as well, trying to get two more hours out of the Kleenex in my pocket. I am a self-loathing sniffer. Hi, Irony. I see you there. My old friend. We sound like the SNIFF Mormon Tabernacle Choir, only much more nasal. We're the Sniffenpouffs. American Sniffle? Okay, I'll stop. SNIFF SNIFF SNIFFETY FREAKING SNIFF.
I am blasting the Jim Brickman and it's not helping. I can still hear them. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, KID, GO GET A FRIGGIN KLEENEX!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe it's time for some big guns--some Tchaikovsky or some Jack Johnson, or (as Pandora thought was soooo funny to randomly play for me on 4/20 this morning during first period) a little Bob Marley, perhaps? Alas, Bob Marley is not suitable test-taking music. That standard was established in the Fall of '94 in Ms. L's (or as we know her now: K's) Honors World History class. Jim Brickman, yes. David Lanz, yes. Soundtrack to Braveheart, Empire of the Sun, Out of Africa, or The Last of the Mohicans? Yes please. I can't sit in a room and listen to pencils scratch and noses sniff and all that. Pass.
Sad news. (Did you read that in Tony Danza's voice? 'Cause that's how I wrote it.)
The guy that wrote Empire of the Sun died today. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, so I don't remember much other than him eating bugs in his gruel. Maybe I owe it another look. I know enough to know the previous sentence doesn't really do it justice.
So anyway, back to SNIFF me. SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.
It's my own fault I am listening to this chorus of sniffelage. I am too cheap to buy Kleenex. I usually stick some in my pocket or purse, or up my sleeve like Grandma L, just for myself, but the rest of these nerds are on their own. Do you know how much money a teacher could spend on Kleenex in a year? They snot it up around here pretty quick. I gave up on that a few years back, and the extra-credit Kleenex ran out back in January. Too bad, suckas. Plan ahead for your own snot-related needs. I'm good. At least I'm able to keep it to a minimum, if you know what I'm saying.
I know that there aren't many high school kids that read this anyway (any? I don't know). But can I make a general announcement here? Planning for all of your own bodily functions, all of them, I say, is part of being a grownup. Learn it. Love it. Stop asking me for, you know, stuff.
*gets down off soapbox*
The music seems to be taming the teenage beasts, but SNIFF there seems to be no SNIFFING change in their secretion of nasal fluid and the resulting sniffage. GEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ROSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, PDawg.
Don't you really want to be a teacher now? This ain't the half of it either. Oh man. I still have so many stories that are going to find their way here in my post-coaching career. Excellent. *rubs palms together* Bwah ah ah ah....
Okay, just one. This one time, two girls came to practice on 4/20, high. I don't remember how many years ago it was. Or do I? *wink* Anyway, they were so high they didn't know that everyone else knew they were high. They were a good 4 counts behind all of the rest with the choreography. They were not hearing the same music we were, clearly. And when I reported it, their parents were appalled that I could accuse their precious little red-eyed-slow-moving-chuckling-grinning-munchie-having sweethearts--these poor, precious little snowflakes, pure as the driven snow, of having done such a thing. Gag me.
A lot of the time I really have to wonder if this REALLY is my job. Because it is full of FAIL.
Yay school. At least this passed a little bit of time. Only 1 hour, 55 minutes left until I can leave. How on earth will I amuse myself? I can tell you that I CANNOT FREAKING WAIT to dive in to the third batch of essays for the day, a comparison of Robert Bridges and Anne Stevenson's poems, both entitled "Eros." They are definitely not as hot as they sound. They should've been called "Here, I'm your English teacher, let me kill poetry for you."
Why, oh why didn't I teach PE?
Carpe Diem, y'all.