January 3, 2005

• So school.  Similar to string beans in the sense that you have to accept it as a part of your life no matter how many times you fake sick or say you are 'allergic'. It's a bummer, isn't it? Mom's making your favorite spaghetti and everything's going just splendid and then boom. String beans. Everywhere.  Like they own the place. 

  
  

  "EAT ME! I have antioxidant phenol compounds!"

  
  

  Do I know what anti-dioxidant phenol compounds are?  No.  Do I want to know? Not really.  But that's school for you.  String beans.

  
  

  So, now that I’ve given you my deep introduction to my perspective on my educational career, I am now going to write a brief analysis for each one of my classes.

  
  

  Eh hem.

  
  

  What I Am Forced To Sit Through Almost Every Day For Ten Consecutive Months

  
  

  Health:  I believe I wrote an entire entry dedicated to health way back in the day.  As in November 14th.  As in check it out. 

  
  

  Health's only okay in my book because it takes absolutely no brain cells whatsoever to pass that class.  Your pastime could be flicking monstrous balls of snot across the room.  Paper airplanes.  Sleeping.  Being as obnoxious as the seahorse in Finding Nemo.  You could smoke marijuana in that class and get twenty extra credit points for 'demonstrating'.  There is just no way to fail Health Class.  One of the few most impossible things in the world. 

  
  

  Language Arts:  This has and will always be my favorite class.  I love writing.  I love grammar, although I’m not exactly exceptional at it.  And dare I say it, I really don’t mind Shakespeare.  If you happen to be in my Language Arts class and you are reading this, please don’t let my opinion on Shakespeare taint your perception of me.  I would never even consider naming a single one of my children something as ghastly as "Benvolio".  I would not be caught dead in purple tights. And I’ve never once used the word ‘thee’ in a sentence.  Except for just now. And for that one time when I was imitating my sister’s lisp.  But that doesn’t count.  I guess I enjoy Shakespeare for the same reasons any other potential fan might.  The language is beautiful.  And the plots of the plays aren’t too shabby either.  Especially when we aren’t getting tested on them. 

  
  

  There is, however, a con to my language arts class.  It’s at 8:30 in the morning.  A time when a question like “Where’s your reading log?” could get a response from me along the lines of “Toilet clog? No. That must’ve been someone else.”

  
  

  Science:  Dr. Citrin is the most unforgiving teacher I ever met.  You forgot your homework?  Left it in your locker?  Guess what? Now Dr. Citrin mentally marked you down in his intangible Book of Student Reputations as a Disorganized Leh-hoo-zeh-her.  Don’t remember what H20 + NaCl is?  Well, I’m sorry to hear that you Hopeless Retardo.  In this class, I’ve learned three major things. 1: Always get the answer right. When someone gets an answer wrong, he usually shakes his head in shame.  As if saying, “Wow, man.  You suck at life. I see a trailer park in your near future.”  2: Be organized.  As in color code everything.  3: Know the periodic table.  He treats each element like they are his un-biologically related children.  If you don’t know the valence state of Francium by now, there is no kind way of putting it.  You are screwed.  Live it, learn it, hate it: The Periodic Table.

  
  

  Dr. Citrin is also one of those cheesy adults that replace all curse words with different types of food and weapons.  Shit transforms into Sugar.  Son of a Bitch turns into Son of a Gun. Crap changes to Cracker.  And I swear I once heard him replace Oh Fuck with Oh Muffin.

  
  

  For most teachers, I’d be willing to know what exactly they think of me.  Does she/he think I’m smart?  That I try?  That I’m organized?  I never want to know what Dr. Citrin thinks of me.  It might completely demolish whatever is left of my self esteem. 

  
  

  Math:  “Thanks, Lauren.  Y-4=4.5(x-56) is correct!  Now, Daryl.  What’s 2+2?” 

  
  

  Mrs. Noonan clearly thinks I am an idiot.  I don’t blame her, either.  Math is my least favorite subject.  If the world depended solely on my mathematical skills, everyone would die.  I’m just that bad. 

  
  

  However, Mrs. Noonan isn’t exactly the brightest bulb of the bunch, either.  She once told the class that she originally wanted to be a language arts teacher.  As she wrote the plural form of ‘bus’ as ‘bussses’ on the overhead.  As she typed “Your going to the grocery store” in a word problem.   

  
  

  Sometimes I brag about being a grammar freak.  Which is pretty embarrassing. Considering the fact that if my grammar skills were a person his name would be Billy Bob, he’d live in the slums of Tennessee, and he’d eat roasted possum for breakfast.  Why? Because I said so.  

  
  

  But nonetheless, I still feel morally obligated to correct everyone else’s grammatical and spelling errors.

  
  

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cross.  That is how you spell pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis! Now, Mrs. Noonan.   What’s the first letter of the alphabet?” I wish I could say.  But I refrain. 

  
  

  History:  It's not the subject that gets to me, it's the teacher.  Not actually the teacher, either.  More like the time and location of where the teacher is.  Because I guarantee you.  Once a single foul word, once the tiniest offending phrase is uttered from my mouth, my history teacher will be right behind me, hearing the entire thing.  I wish I could get away with saying that she merely unintentionally runs into me every time I utter the words ‘shit’, ‘fuck’ ‘bitch’, etc.  However, I am pretty sure someone out there is sending her telepathic messages that help her transport to my exact location.  And then videotape every one of my rude remarks and mail them to God so he can send me to hell.  Early.

  
  

  Or maybe my luck is just awful.

  
  

  Techniques of Writing:  I hate it when I feel obligated to laugh at something that really isn’t that funny at all.  This usually happens when a) everyone else is laughing or b) someone tells a joke and no one is laughing and you pity that person. In techniques of writing, it is all about the A.  This class makes my cheek muscles want to file a lawsuit against god-awful jokes and all they stand for.  Oh, great.  Ricky’s giving another one of her ten-hour futile contradictions against society.  Auri is drawing knives on his binder.  And oh no.  Will farted. Let’s all just bust a gut because that is so funny. 

  
  

  I’m considered the ‘silent one’ of this class.  Everyone else is choking on their own saliva with laughter.  And it makes me wonder.  What is wrong with me?  Why don’t I find nouns hilarious? Why can’t I honestly let out a whole-hearted laugh when Mrs. Thoroman refers to the chewed pencil on her desk as a Christ Figure? Why me? 

  
  

  However, rather than seeking answers, I resort to my ipod.  Blasting the music and at the same time draining out the laughter that I will never be able to fully join in.

  
  

  Spanish:  This class is a joke.  Not a funny Ha Ha joke.  A pitiful joke.  When Spanish asks self-consciously why everyone is laughing, the response would be something like “We aren’t laughing with you.  We are laughing at you.” 

  
  

  Currently, we are learning the conjugation of the AR verbs.   That could be a hard topic.  If I were six.  Everything about this class reminds me of pre-school.  The teacher has an incredibly soft, high voice.  She scolds little Ben Cohen for eating in class.  For moving out of his seat.  She makes us count to ten, slowly.  Recite the alphabet.  I’ve been taking Spanish for three years.  And I just finished learning the alphabet? 

  
  

  I can’t wait for tomorrow’s lesson.  We’re going on a class trip to Sesame Street.

  
  

  Art: One word: Therapy.  Behind all those canvases, paintbrushes, and pencil shavings, you will find my barely-there sanity.  Art is living proof that there might just be a god.  It conveniently occurs right after all the horrors of my other classes.  And I can let out all my anger and frustration, or sometimes even, on the rare occasion…happiness, onto my drawing or canvas. And of course, the art posse.  The four somewhat normal freshmen of period eight honors art.  We basically tell each other everything, and although we never actually solve any of our problems, we complain like there is no tomorrow.  I listen to their rambles, I let out my own.  Because that’s just what starving artists do. 

  
  

  After all that I have track.  Which basically involves skipping track.  Or doing mile repeats.

  
  

  Wow, do I hate string beans.

  • 8:48 pm
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