The Long Recital

 

Last night was Kiki’s dance recital, a three-hour show where her two-minute dance was two hours and twenty minutes in. She decided to take tap dancing in January, and from her second lesson till last night she screamed, cried, and pouted before each class. The timing was not ideal, it was Fridays at 4, and after a long week, she wanted to binge Bob’s Burgers, play with her makeup, and make snacks in the kitchen.

Two hours into the recital Geoffrey told me he was hungry. I forgot to feed the kids dinner because I ate two sandwiches and a small cake at lunch and the thought of food wouldn’t enter my brain for at least twelve more hours. I didn’t plan to eat so much, but Kiki said she was full after two bites of her sandwich, so I had to eat her leftovers. When it is 100 degrees and you just ate two sandwiches and cake, all you can do is sleep like a boa constrictor digesting a cow. The perfect place for a nap is a three-hour dance performance in a dark air-conditioned theater. 

I brought a book too and went between dozing, reading, and endearing smiles at groups of five-year-olds spinning around to their interpretation of a dance routine. The pageantry is like Toddlers and Tiaras, all these kids wearing clown makeup and up-dos. 

It’s cute when little kids get glamour shot ready, but it is bizarre when older women dress like children, and it’s so easy to do with the cute accessories at Claire’s. An adult woman wearing pigtails is usually a sign she is allergic to cellphone towers or oblivious to the emotional abuse of cats. She carries an NPR tote bag as a purse and always has an anecdote to share about the lack of elasticity in socks.

I’m not thinking about infantilizing stylish pigtails like Chrissy from Three’s Company, I’m thinking more of shooting-out-of-the-side-of-the-head pigtails, like Boo from Monsters Inc. This look on a woman tells you she will either drive you crazy or be so unintentionally charming, you’ll be mesmerized by her weirdness.

On my sober app, there is a community message board. A few people post often, and they graciously offer trigger warnings before going into lengthy posts wondering if they were molested. I never comment, only read. Someone gave the strangest introduction, claiming to be the oldest soul in existence, descendant from aliens, but also having had a past life as an alien. I imagined her unashamedly typing up this overly confident pile of garbage with two pigtails bopping in rhythm to the keystrokes.

There are women at yoga who wear their hair in pigtails. It’s obvious when the hairstyle is done to minimize soaking straightened hair, there’s a functionality to the style, and usually, the pigtails are at the base of the head below the ears. But there will be a woman, with those pigtails shooting out the side of her head, right above her ears. Her demeanor is as happy-go-lucky as her hair indicates. When I get a good look at her, I know she used to love doing LSD.

I hate showering at the yoga studio, but sometimes it has to be done. There is only one shower, and a line can build up. One of these LSD-loving, pigtail, hippie women was in line behind me. These women tend to make me nervous because I’m afraid they're going to say some psychic shit to me that will stress me out. She decided to give herself a whores bath with the sink, and said, “We used to all just get in the shower together.”

I gave her a “what are you gonna do” shrug, and looked at the ground.

After the kids and I came home from the performance I made them dinner. Geoffrey was exhausted and went to bed, but Kiki and I stayed up chatting. I told her I saw someone from her school in the bathroom at the recital. She asked, “What did they look like?”

I told her, “They had long brown hair.”

Before I could add more, she said, “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

The most common of hairstyles, yet the least memorable.

Then she talked about the recital and to my surprise added, “I think I’ll do jazz in the fall.”

And I said, “I’ll try and get you in a Monday class."

The Lottery

 

I was searching my mom’s bookcase for a new read. It was a trip down memory lane, so many books I abandoned on one of the moves I made in the last twenty years. I pulled out a book How to Win Lotteries, Sweepstakes, and Contests in the 21st Century. My mom said, “You can have it.”

The book was from 2004 and was a second edition, so I’m not sure how things changed in the first four years of the 21st century, but obviously, I was reading this book. I flipped through the pages, and lucky for me, my mom highlighted all the important parts. I didn’t know we were so alike.

Last summer I read The Power of Positive Thinking and made a set of flashcards to have on hand. My son also has this delusional optimism that the lottery is ours for the taking, evident by him jotting notes while listening to the audiobook Think and Grow Rich.

Last week, I stayed with my parents for a few days while my kids were on vacation with their dad. My mom and I went to TJ Max and Ross and every night my dad would make us dinner.

I secretly check the expiration dates on everything because they won’t. Those dates aren’t even a suggestion to my parents. I’m strategic after noticing they’re trying to feed me something old, and I pretend I don’t have the appetite for it rather than mentioning its toxicity. Refusing to eat salad dressing that expired in 2016, I might as well slap my dad across the face. He is just like his mom, in this way. My older sister Lacey ruined a family dinner one night after spreading the news that my grandma scraped mold off the top of salsa before feeding it to us.

My mom isn’t as sensitive about my adherence to expiration dates, but she thinks it’s dramatic. Of course, I started my period the day I arrived at their house, and forgot to buy tampons when we were out running errands. I told her, and she ran off to grab some she had under the sink.

I flipped the box over and saw the year 2009. Maybe I would have considered it if the applicators weren’t plastic, but I told her, “No way, I’ll just keep making homemade toilet paper pads.”

My mom said, “That’s ridiculous. If you’re really that worried, take it out after four hours instead of six.”

One night we watched Expendables 3. Well, my dad left ten minutes after it started to go work in his office. We wouldn’t have picked the movie if it weren’t for him, but the agony of picking out another movie was too overwhelming so we committed to it. I’m glad we did. The ridiculousness of the cast, every 90’s action star, was hysterical. We nearly fell off the couch laughing when Dr. Frasier Crane strolled on the scene.

I read about a movie at the Cannes Film Festival getting an eleven-minute standing ovation. Eleven Minutes!! Even the best movie I’ve ever seen, I don’t think I could clap longer than one minute. Wouldn’t clapping for eleven minutes cause nerve damage, or make your hands fall off?

The Hot Chick, a Rob Schneider classic, is a 21%. You can’t trust the critics. My childhood favorite, Pretty Woman, did better than I would have thought with a 60%. 

Tomorrow I’m turning 42 and I feel more like Margot Tenenbaum than Vivian Ward. I remember, as an eight-year-old thinking how amazing adulthood would be. There’s Julia Roberts, making money, getting high fashion, and aspiring to finish high school. And here I am reading the highlighted parts of “How to Win Lotteries, Sweepstakes, and Contests in the 21st Century.”

I guess I missed the key takeaway from Pretty Woman, don’t kiss them boys on the mouth, it will only bring on trouble… unless they drive a Lotus Esprit and are best friends with George Costanza, then it’s like winning the lottery.

Shameful Summer

I’m on summer break and my kids are on summer break. It started for them on Tuesday, but mine started two weeks ago. I took the first few days to binge every docuseries made this year. I watched Brandy Melville, The Jinx, Ashley Madison, the Kevin Spacey one, and a few more probably about cults. 

A brief review of each: Brandy Melville is more a representation of our times; the A-story is about the objectification of beautiful women by a misogynist and the B-STORY(!!!) Is about slave labor in fast fashion and how the coast of Ghana has turned into the world’s Sally Anne, with literal mountains of used clothes spilling into the ocean. I’m not saying these girls’ stories weren’t moving, I’m just saying there was a much more important story to focus on. The Jinx was analyzed from the front, back, ear, mouth, and nostrils, there is nothing that was not said in this 20-hour story. Ashley Madison just gave me anxiety that my ex-husband was on the website, and as I started trying to figure out if he was on that list, I had a moment of STFU, where Rafiki hit me on top of the head with his stick reminding me to let go of the past. Lastly, the Kevin Spacey doc, ummm, I hate to say it, he did some fucked up shit, but it was not even close to being categorized as rape. After we found out what his dad was likely doing to him as a kid, I think we can forgive him if he promises to only pull his dick out around people who consent regardless of him helping their career. That’s also why I say, “Free the Menendez brothers and give them all that damn money.”

Back to the kids’ summer vacation. The first day was very chill because both of them were sent home sick, so we watched twelve hours of TV. Unlike me, they’re unable to do this two days in a row. They recovered and needed to be stimulated beyond The Simpsons and Bob’s Burgers.

I will start complaining: I’m becoming increasingly bothered by doing dishes seven times a day. My son is a morning person, he wakes up before six am and gets in the shower, he’s textbook seize the day, and my daughter is a night person, who will start talking at remarkable length from 9 pm - 11 pm, kindly asking to make another point after I tell her she needs to go to bed, and without waiting for an answer, continues on her analysis of Jojo Siwa’s recent transformation. This all means that I am getting no sleep.

My son brought me coffee this morning and when I dragged myself out of bed thinking he was the sweetest of sweetie pies, I noticed coffee drops spotting the carpet down the hall. I had to bite my tongue and hold on to the sentiment.

My daughter loves making face masks. When she asks if she can make face masks from things in the kitchen, she might as well ask, “Can I make a huge fucking mess, put us at risk of salmonella poisoning, and invite all the ants to parade around the kitchen to these undetectable drops of honey on the speckled countertop?”

At the moment, there are mysterious wet spots on the carpet all around the house and when I ask the kids what’s going on, they shrug their shoulders like I’m stepping in phantom puddles. Seriously though, I think they’re walking around the house with steins full of water and sloshing their cups as they move about like they’re eight Coors Lights in. 

When Geoffrey feels the slightest tinge of boredom, he antagonizes Kingsley until she screams like an asteroid is headed straight for our house. My neighbors are probably grateful for the heatwave because I had to shut the windows to turn on the air conditioning. For the entire last month, when we were in that delightful time of year we went to bed with the windows open, they had to endure my daughter screaming in agony to wake up at 6 am for school. I run up to her, and stage whisper, “The neighbors can hear you!” She doesn’t care.

This afternoon after their bickering reached a frenzy, the three of us sat around the beat-up IKEA table to have a RAP sesh about basic conduct. I explained to my son that when my brothers and cousin called me a fatso as a kid, it fucked me up as a young woman. I told my daughter that screaming your head off is the fastest way for the world to tune you out. It’s sad, but true.

I turned off the TV. The amazing TV with free and easily accessible entertainment. The kids are in the kitchen making a stop-motion video with an iPad. I know, it’s still an electronic device, but they promised to stay off of YouTube and only use the app. I enjoy hearing them have funny conversations while I’m down the hall in the comfort of my bed with a laptop on my lap.

I really can’t dole out parenting advice because I have a special situation where my kids leave three days a week. So when things get tough, I (ashamedly) say to myself, “I can get through this,” since they will be leaving soon.

Their dad is on a work trip, so I have them for a long stretch. It will be twelve days; we are five in, but who's counting? I love having them around, and I miss them terribly when they’re gone, but I need to hide in my room every once in a while, which is probably what people who live with their kids full-time do. 

Tomorrow I’m taking them to SunSplash water park. They’re thrilled, even though I have threatened to take this opportunity away from them seventy-five times in the last three days. I’m bringing my book because I’m delusional. I see how in the olden days moms used to buy their kids passes to these types of parks, and drop them off in the morning with a verbal warning to stay away from people who look like Kevin Spacey and enough money to buy a candy bar for lunch.

I have another horrible thing to admit: I’m in the process of quitting vaping. I know, gross. I started over the pandemic, and then I turned into one of those teenagers in the anti-vaping commercials, who rummages through all her shit to find her vape, so she could happily suck on this nicotine stick while pretending to take a shit on the toilet.

I have to eat nicotine lozenges, and when I feel myself turning into a short-fused asshole, I eat two. I lied to pretty much everyone I know that I picked up this filthy habit, and because I want to live to be over a hundred (I’m just like a tech-bro) I need to cut this shit out.

I’m unsure when I officially quit because it was a long time coming. It might be mid-May when I took the last puff from those adorable fruit-flavored little cubes of calming smoke producers, but also deadly fog that ravages your insides.

My kids think smoking is akin to prostituting yourself to support a meth habit, and that is why this will probably be the only blog post I delete when my kids turn sixty and decide they’d like to understand their crazy mother by maybe reading some of it. I would rather give them a list of my sexual history than ever admit that I vaped.

What sucks about not vaping? The surprising way that my clothes have shrunk. I told a friend of mine, I just need to get through a month or two of completely kicking the habit before I worry about the weight gain because I need to pick one battle at a time, and if I fixate on this extra five (maybe ten, FUCK) pounds then I will end up right back on that poisonous nicotine stick. This is another thing I could share with Geoffrey about fat-shaming for the sake of exerting dominance, it will make someone think cancer is worth the risk.

Anyways, to the women who do this full time, all the time, I really tip my hat to you. Summer vacation is a whole different level. I have no idea how anyone could homeschool their kid. I know I would turn into a shelf of a human which is probably why I’m divorced in the first place, a subconscious need to be alone kind of a lot. 

We’ll get our asses on a schedule, I’ll remember there are many factors at play when I process my emotions after walking into a destroyed kitchen, and I hate to say it, but after the kids’ dad gets back, they’re going on vacation with him for a week, and when things get overwhelming, I can always look forward to missing them.

Victory Lap

 

Two years ago I bought a gigantic inflatable swimming pool. We tried to put it in the front yard, but the house is on a hillside, and as the hose filled up the pool, one side was full while the other was bone dry. I realized the hillside pool could end in a disaster where someone almost died, so we decided to move the pool to the flat garage.

The problem with our indoor pool was it never saw the sun, so it remained cold throughout the entire summer. The kids would spend a couple minutes in it, and then have to dry off on their beach towels laid out in the driveway. When I came down with popsicles, I saw Kiki lying on her towel with her bathing suit top off. I rushed over to her, asking what the hell she was doing, and she explained she was tanning like they do on a European beach.

I unnecessarily explained the difference between a European beach and our driveway, and she put her bathing suit top back on while proclaiming this summer she was planning to get the tannest she’d ever been. As I sat in my lawn chair after feeling like I did some good parenting, I took a bite from my popsicle and said, “You’re just like my sister!”

When I was five years old my family lived on a military base in San Francisco. We lived in an old house that is probably worth fifteen million dollars now, and my sisters and I shared a bedroom on the top floor that had windows overlooking the front yard. One evening, my parents had a get-together, and as they stood in the front yard saying goodbye to their friends, my sister convinced me and my little sister to strip naked and dance in the windows. My parents looked up at their three daughters posing in the windows like it was our first day in the red-light district. They probably had a mini-stroke that killed their buzz and said to their friends, “How did our kids end up such sluts?” Followed by an awkward laugh, no one else would participate in.

I can’t remember what my mom said to us after she came inside and told us to put our damn clothes on and go to bed. I probably blocked that part out of my memory for a reason. I get it. No podcasts going to properly prepare you for parenting your kid when they do something that’s just straight-up stupid.

This week Geoffrey achieved his greatest victory in our house, and he finally won playing the game CLUE. I have hesitations when we start this game because Geoffrey never wins, so it always ends with him flipping over the game board and running to his room, where he slams the door, and screams about how the world is conspiring against him. After he won, he was ecstatic. He was literally doing flips on the couch. I was happy for him, and I said, “See, I told you, it’s all luck.”

Then he took a break from flipping to run around the living room like Naruto, and scream, “It has nothing to do with luck. I’m better than all of you. I’m the best.”

It could have been a teachable moment, but he would have listened as well as he does after he loses, and then call us losers on his fifteenth victory lap. I did what my mom probably did after she told us to put pajamas on and stop dancing for free, and I went into the kitchen and did the dishes.

After Kiki came in and made a snack plate she called her “shar-coochie board” I called my sister and told her about this fine-ass man I saw in yoga. After I explained to her that this guy looked like John Cena, she had a practical reaction, “Make sure he has a job.”

I had to explain to her that it hurts my feelings when my family members say this to me. I obviously would love to have a dual-income household that allows me to have a real in-ground swimming pool, in the backyard, of course, so laying out topless won’t create a text thread of concern on the Next Door app. I just assume people who go to yoga in the middle of the day are like me, with flexible job schedules whose kids go to their dad’s three days a week. I did what I generally do after being mesmerized by another human being, I made up a backstory befitting the leading man in a rom-com.

I imagined he was a retired athlete who spends his time working out and coaching youth sports teams. I finally befriended this hunk when he rolled his mat out next to me and introduced himself. We had an awkward first chat, but I put a stop to my usual logorrhea while laughing after everything I said, and I asked him about himself. He confirmed he wasn’t a professional athlete (knife to my heart) and then said he was just in Marin to clear out a vacant lot and was going to San Diego to see his kids at college. 

The conversation didn’t flow like a normal rom-com, but this is real life, so you never know after you first meet someone if they are shy or nervous, or if I am like Jason Bateman in that episode of Arrested Development where he falls in love with Charlize Theron never realizing she is “Special.”

Yes, I’ve learned recently from my kids that “Special” is the new r-word. So if you’re looking to make your preteen run to their room and ponder if they’re Corky in Life Goes On, and no one has the balls to tell them, then go right ahead and call them special. Afterward, you can explain to them that you don’t believe they are “special,” but don’t get too comfortable with your mother’s assessment because this fear will come back multiple times throughout their life.

This yoga guy might not be who I think he is. He could be a gym rat who does contract yard work to sustain his outdoorsy, adventure-seeking, lifestyle. 

Oh my goodness, I think I'm growing. Could it be from this seven-month stretch in adulthood that I have not been coupled up with a man? Yes! Suck it life, I’ve outsmarted you, for once. You’ve thrown me the bait, and I finally learned not to concoct a fantasy story before taking a bite. I will find out just how special this guy is before I lay down at his feet.

Now, I’ll take my victory lap, and then do the dishes.

Good Friends

I’m sad when I think about the window closing on having another baby. I could put my twelve years of parenting knowledge to good use. I’d probably be pretty good at it; the third time is a charm.

I thought of three ways of going about doing this. The first would be to go out to a bar and find an attractive and charismatic man. This was a real suggestion my grandma gave to my sister after her divorce. My grandma was worried my thirty-year-old sister was going to be childless and she told her, “You could always go out and get pregnant from a guy at the bar… we’ll raise your baby as a family.”

I thought the last part was really sweet. My grandma had all her four children by the time she was twenty, it was a different time, now thirty is the new twenty. It was also a time when there was no ancestory.com blowing up everyone’s genius plans to get a baby by heading to the bar while ovulating.

The other issue with this is not knowing family history. What if you left their house and saw some evidence they were a complete whack-job? Then you got to go home and pull some Revolutionary Road shit, sitting on a garden sprinkler trying to power wash your uterus.

The second way I considered was writing letters to all the male brilliant minds of our time, asking them if they’d generously spare some sperm. It could come off as psycho, but given the size of their egos, I’d assume they’d be flattered and would even consider it after performing some type of background check. They might deem me as too stupid though, which could hurt. However, I would promise to give the baby a daily cold plunge.

If you get that genius sperm, and then raise the kid to be loving and kind, who knows what they would do… they could really change the world for the better. I remember a few weeks before I got married, I was at the Bigfoot Lodge in West LA, with my sister and cousin. We were standing outside talking to some guys, and the one I was talking to gave me a memorable lecture on the importance of mating with someone smart. Maybe he was recently dumped for a Rhodes Scholar, but he had a passionate argument. I was ready to get that ring on my finger so I could meet my future kids, so I nodded along, and thought, “Well good looks also get people far in life… some could argue farther.”

I was talking to my brother about the artificial insemination route, and he thought it was super scientific. He said, “It’s really expensive. Maybe your work will pay for it.”

I told him, it’s not what you think. I looked up the company online. It’s in Seattle and you basically inject yourself with this de-thawed turkey baster of sperm. He didn’t believe me, but it’s true. Google it.

The third method would be asking my ex-husband for sperm so the baby would be a full-blooded sibling to my two kids. I thought about this more, and how we are barely able to utter a few sentences to each other without a rage outburst, and I decided it would never happen. Not even if I was Daniel Day-Lewis with the longest sperm-sucking milkshake straw.

When talking on the phone with my sister I decided to fill out a dating profile on EHarmony. I answered the 400 questions about myself, and then started shopping for men. I realized I looked for the wrong kind of man when left to my own devices because I matched well with libertarians who are super into fitness. I didn’t at one time say I liked camping or hiking, and every guy I had off-the-chart compatibility with was in a kayak in their profile picture.

I figured, don’t fuck with the algorithm, and just click the heart buttons. So I matched with people. Then I sent someone a message, and they wrote me back, but I couldn’t read it without buying the subscription. Eharmony wants you to find a partner, for 400 smack-a-roos. 

So I deleted my account. To be honest, I was a bit freaked out reading the profiles and people saying they’re looking for someone to grow old with or for a deeply fulfilling relationship. I have a pretty full schedule, and I’ve recently been assigned the kids’ Dungeon Master on Wednesday nights.

I read an interview with Angelina Jolie, and I thought it was so lovely how she talked about her kids. She said, “… we’re close friends.”

Maybe this made me eager to bring another friend into the fold. I think about how my kids will be off to college in six to seven years, and then what am I going to do? Go kayaking? No thanks. A baby will stretch out this fun time for another 10 years. 

Last week the kids had spring break; they had a staycation while I went to work. This is the first time I’ve been able to leave them for long stretches and know they’ll be fine. With a baby, were setting back the clock on our freedom. I’m happy with how our lives are right now. I won’t be impulsive about a new addition, but whenever I hear a fifty-something woman being interviewed on Armchair Expert and she talks about her preteen kid, I quickly google her age. Plenty of women have kids at 43. I still have a year to commit to this plan.

We have so much fun together. I know my first time was a charm, and my second time was a charm. I guess I just want to keep the good times rolling. And for some reason, now I really want to take the kids camping.

Pizza Swans

 

I started a new writing class, or I should call it writing clash. The teacher irritated me the moment he all-knowingly explained that billionaires have to be insane since they should have retired by the time they made 500 million. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Oh great, my teacher is a lazy communist.”

When he gave me notes on a script, he explained a friend told him the difference between a man who is a pedophile and a man who likes young women depends on when the girl goes through puberty. I felt like throwing the barf face emoji in the group chat. The teacher finished up the anecdote by saying, “If anyone needs to make this distinction, it’s not a good sign.” And I was thinking, “Then why did you just say all that shit?”

What struck me as cosmic orchestration was that the next day, after I vented to everyone I knew about my teacher, a student in my class had a similar reaction to me. I was writing on the board and someone raised their hand and rudely said I was going to fast. I noticed they were on their phone so I said, it helps if you put your phone away, and they stuffed all their shit in their backpack and stormed out of class.

It was awkward and I’ve never experienced a student having a bit of a stamping-their-foot moment in class before. I choose to ignore it, but only externally. In my brain, I was processing like mad. I was like my teacher was to me, to this student. Did she think I was an out-of-touch pedo-symathizer?

That night Netflix infiltrated my dreams. I dreamed I was on the show Love Is Blind and I followed another contestant who was drunk off her ass and distraught that her apartment was haunted by ghosts. When I walked into her room, the ghosts turned out to be other contestants dressed up in powdered wigs pretending to be ghosts. I jokingly threw up two middle fingers and said, “Hey sluts, suck on this.” Then someone said something like “finger-bang fingers,” and I replied, “These are butt-banging fingers.”

I woke up laughing but concerned. I need to find someone to have sex with before my brain caves in on itself. Most people get out of a relationship armed with evidence their ex-partner is a narcissist, but I get out of relationships even more convinced I am a narcissist. How can I still think you can have a purely sexual relationship with someone? I can’t explain this to my family because they don’t understand my situation. They’ll be appalled, maybe disgusted, when I announce, “I’ve decided to take on a lover.”

I started watching Feud: Capote vs. The Swans on Hulu, and the swans have given me the perspective that “Gurl, you better get yours!” They’re like Carrie, Samantha, and that’s it. Charlotte is too prudish and Miranda is not glamorous. In the last episode, it was disclosed that the fabulous Babe would have suitors drop in, and she’d dazzle them with her fashionable outfit before giving them an average roll in the sheets. She didn’t hold these guys to the same standards as her TV mogul husband, she liked a handsome food delivery man.

I could take a hint from the Swans, and ask the pizza delivery guy, but what if he became obsessed with me? It just seems unsafe. My narcissism, rearing its beautiful head.

I’m too old for Love is Blind, and too young for the Golden Bachelor, but reality TV wouldn’t serve me well. I'm an introvert who loves controlled attention, and I don’t drink which is the main ingredient to these storylines. 

If I did drink, I liken myself to Leah McSweeny from RHONY. I would annoy the shit out of everyone by being an obnoxious loudmouth after two glasses of wine but ultimately endear everyone with social schadenfreude after ending the night doing cartwheels naked across the lawn and launching tiki torches into the swimming pool like an Olympic javelin thrower.

I’ll just have to find this lover the old-fashioned way, praying to God that a man falls in my lap with his dick out and my pants off. There could be a small conversation. Maybe something sophisticated like, “Leave the pizza in the dining room, darling.” I will be cordial, not overtly nice, and I won’t be funny.

Next week, I’m going to class with a rewrite and I know my teacher won’t get it. I have my classmates though who I can glean an accurate reading of understanding and connection to the culture. I’m not getting caught up in the dramatics of my feelings because it could cause some type of mirrored disaster in my own classroom. 

The moral of the story, emotions are for peasants, pizza is for sex, and sex saves lives.