I am kind of nuts, aren't I?
I am debating sharing this blog with someone else. I don't know. How do things usually look to you, as a fairly impartial reader? Am I nuts?
27.3.14
21.3.14
Ok, ok, one more kind of funny teacher story. Any maybe a bus driver story if my hand doesn't hurt.
I probably should have realized I did not get along with teachers early on in my school "career".
I remember in elementary, our class would regularly go to the computer lab and either type, or just look shit up on the internet.
I always hated computer class when we were just looking shit up. Oregon Trail was fun, and so was typing, but I think Mr. Blais was frankly just too fucking lazy to bother to make sure we were all typing, or was too busy ogling the girls and deciding who to creep on when we all eventually had him again in middle school, so most of the time, we were just assigned to look up shit on the internet.
I want to take a second here to note that this was never anything informative. Usually, someone in the class would go "Oh look, Pokémon!", and Mr. Blais would then exclaim:
"Regard la! Tout le monde, allez a le site que Alica a trove!"
And then we'd all go spend a while looking at Alica's pokemon website.
Now, the only thing I think I ever learned from that is that you could make decent Pokémon card money by printing off pictures and descriptions from that site and selling them to people at school for 25 cents a pop. Don't try it now though, it's creepy and I suspect that while copywrite lawyers have better things to do than sue little kids, they probably don't have much better things to do than sue petty 20-something intellectual thieves.
As much as I was a problem child, I think I was also really fucking precocious as a little kid, and could probably describe my elementary school years as "profitable" - from selling the boy's side's box full of paper hornets to the girls for meal card tickets, to trading really worn porn mags I found laying around the school yard for my first and most disgusting cigarette, to my $8 bucks a pop gerbil farms, I think I was definitely an 8 year old's version of a millionaire. I could buy all my own shit, and while I am still very, very skilled at taking people's money away from them, I think that if I could have a proportionate level of adult income for a decade, I could retire.
Anyway, back to computer lab. Many more of the classes were pokemon oriented or spent emailing the friends I'd made at French camp than actually learning anything. This was almost ten years before Wikipedia, long before Youtube, and even before Google, when people still used fucking AskJeeves, and actually ASKED FUCKING QUESTIONS like "Can you find me a wicked fucking Pokémon website?". This was at a time when having a porn site called the White House that featured chicks with really hairy vags actually made sense and was kind of funny (I JUST got the fucking joke, fifteen years after seeing that particular website once, and LAWL!). There was barely anything to learn online without looking hard for it, and let's face it, a bunch of kids are not going to look too hard.
Worse than all that, my dad has always been big on gadgets, and thusly, I had a nice shiney brand fucking new Pentium II at home, and even with the shoddy internet one comes to expect in the Great Northern Wasteland, that machine killed fucking lag like Woodie Guthrie's kills fascists, and was faster than a white trash widow at the Indy 500. By comparison, the school had bought possibly the worse glorified fucking calculators available that were internet capable, and everything DRUG ON. Eventually, I got kind of sick of it and stopped bothering to look things up when I didn't feel like it.
This eventually came to the notice of Mr. Blais, who was not impressed at his authority being questioned. I suspect I was over at someone else's computer, rather than my own, looking up things in collaboration with them. The ultimatum he laid down was that I needed to go look things up online, or type in things for the computer to say back to me, or play the typing game, or I could go downstairs and sit infront of the office.
I need to make it clear here - I am very, very literally minded, despite rarely being serious myself much anymore, and have always been very fucking black and white.
So, instead of taking this as what I'm sure was in reality an icy, stern Gallic rebuke and an order to get back to "work", I took it as this understanding sort of "Well, tell you what. If you don't want to use the computers, then you can go sit in front of the office until the end of class." Logic now dictates that I could have sat in class and not used the computer just as well, but at the time, I thought it was a genuine offer of an option to go sit quietly in a nice, comfortable chair somewhere where I could be supervised.
So, I said "Thanks, I'll go sit in front of the office", and did, stopping at the classroom to grab a choose your own adventure book. I sat there for a long while.
Eventually, someone, I don't remember who except that it was not the principal, as she was a truly miserable old wench who would of laid things out quite clearly and thus not have left me so confused during what came next, came out of the office and asked me what I was doing there.
I smiled and said "Oh, Mr. Blais said that I could come and sit down here while they used the computers, and I thought it would be ok if I brought a book."
She gave me a puzzled look and went to go find him.
I don't really remember what happened next except that parents were called, and because they knew what a literal son of a bitch they had raised, it was one of the few times they ended up taking my side. I was incredibly confused about the whole thing, being a cute little disturber back then rather than an angry, intentional one, but it's pretty funny looking back on it.
I think perhaps I will write more kid stories, as most of them make me chuckle.
The porn website was funny because Bush was the President, thusly, the best place for Bush was the White House. Not G.W. Bush mind you, Herbert Bush, the one from Saddam Vs. Bush I, and who was succeeded by the excellent Bill Clinton. Unfortunately, the site no longer exists and I suspect the government pulled some sort of early virtual eminent domain stunt on them, barring them from profiting from Bush the Second and the joke from being even better.
In case you don't get it, I'll reword - there sure was a lot of pussy in the white house for a while, surrounded by Bush.
I probably should have realized I did not get along with teachers early on in my school "career".
I remember in elementary, our class would regularly go to the computer lab and either type, or just look shit up on the internet.
I always hated computer class when we were just looking shit up. Oregon Trail was fun, and so was typing, but I think Mr. Blais was frankly just too fucking lazy to bother to make sure we were all typing, or was too busy ogling the girls and deciding who to creep on when we all eventually had him again in middle school, so most of the time, we were just assigned to look up shit on the internet.
I want to take a second here to note that this was never anything informative. Usually, someone in the class would go "Oh look, Pokémon!", and Mr. Blais would then exclaim:
"Regard la! Tout le monde, allez a le site que Alica a trove!"
And then we'd all go spend a while looking at Alica's pokemon website.
Now, the only thing I think I ever learned from that is that you could make decent Pokémon card money by printing off pictures and descriptions from that site and selling them to people at school for 25 cents a pop. Don't try it now though, it's creepy and I suspect that while copywrite lawyers have better things to do than sue little kids, they probably don't have much better things to do than sue petty 20-something intellectual thieves.
As much as I was a problem child, I think I was also really fucking precocious as a little kid, and could probably describe my elementary school years as "profitable" - from selling the boy's side's box full of paper hornets to the girls for meal card tickets, to trading really worn porn mags I found laying around the school yard for my first and most disgusting cigarette, to my $8 bucks a pop gerbil farms, I think I was definitely an 8 year old's version of a millionaire. I could buy all my own shit, and while I am still very, very skilled at taking people's money away from them, I think that if I could have a proportionate level of adult income for a decade, I could retire.
Anyway, back to computer lab. Many more of the classes were pokemon oriented or spent emailing the friends I'd made at French camp than actually learning anything. This was almost ten years before Wikipedia, long before Youtube, and even before Google, when people still used fucking AskJeeves, and actually ASKED FUCKING QUESTIONS like "Can you find me a wicked fucking Pokémon website?". This was at a time when having a porn site called the White House that featured chicks with really hairy vags actually made sense and was kind of funny (I JUST got the fucking joke, fifteen years after seeing that particular website once, and LAWL!). There was barely anything to learn online without looking hard for it, and let's face it, a bunch of kids are not going to look too hard.
Worse than all that, my dad has always been big on gadgets, and thusly, I had a nice shiney brand fucking new Pentium II at home, and even with the shoddy internet one comes to expect in the Great Northern Wasteland, that machine killed fucking lag like Woodie Guthrie's kills fascists, and was faster than a white trash widow at the Indy 500. By comparison, the school had bought possibly the worse glorified fucking calculators available that were internet capable, and everything DRUG ON. Eventually, I got kind of sick of it and stopped bothering to look things up when I didn't feel like it.
This eventually came to the notice of Mr. Blais, who was not impressed at his authority being questioned. I suspect I was over at someone else's computer, rather than my own, looking up things in collaboration with them. The ultimatum he laid down was that I needed to go look things up online, or type in things for the computer to say back to me, or play the typing game, or I could go downstairs and sit infront of the office.
I need to make it clear here - I am very, very literally minded, despite rarely being serious myself much anymore, and have always been very fucking black and white.
So, instead of taking this as what I'm sure was in reality an icy, stern Gallic rebuke and an order to get back to "work", I took it as this understanding sort of "Well, tell you what. If you don't want to use the computers, then you can go sit in front of the office until the end of class." Logic now dictates that I could have sat in class and not used the computer just as well, but at the time, I thought it was a genuine offer of an option to go sit quietly in a nice, comfortable chair somewhere where I could be supervised.
So, I said "Thanks, I'll go sit in front of the office", and did, stopping at the classroom to grab a choose your own adventure book. I sat there for a long while.
Eventually, someone, I don't remember who except that it was not the principal, as she was a truly miserable old wench who would of laid things out quite clearly and thus not have left me so confused during what came next, came out of the office and asked me what I was doing there.
I smiled and said "Oh, Mr. Blais said that I could come and sit down here while they used the computers, and I thought it would be ok if I brought a book."
She gave me a puzzled look and went to go find him.
I don't really remember what happened next except that parents were called, and because they knew what a literal son of a bitch they had raised, it was one of the few times they ended up taking my side. I was incredibly confused about the whole thing, being a cute little disturber back then rather than an angry, intentional one, but it's pretty funny looking back on it.
I think perhaps I will write more kid stories, as most of them make me chuckle.
The porn website was funny because Bush was the President, thusly, the best place for Bush was the White House. Not G.W. Bush mind you, Herbert Bush, the one from Saddam Vs. Bush I, and who was succeeded by the excellent Bill Clinton. Unfortunately, the site no longer exists and I suspect the government pulled some sort of early virtual eminent domain stunt on them, barring them from profiting from Bush the Second and the joke from being even better.
In case you don't get it, I'll reword - there sure was a lot of pussy in the white house for a while, surrounded by Bush.
After rereading this, I now understand a little more why teachers don't like me, and why I wil likely never pull off a real education
I think I am going back to school. It should be pretty simple - I've now completed most of the math courses offered on Khan academy, which go beyond highschool level anyway, and never had any real trouble with other courses beyond occasionally completely disagreeing with the point of view offered by the textbook or teacher.
Which has really kind of screwed me up a bunch over the years.
Take, for example, my 'Finding Forrester' assignment, one of the few I really remember. We had to watch this movie about this kid who is a basketball star but secretly loves to write, and his relationship with his literary idol.
The big theme of the assignment was "Explain the story, and detail how "Kid's Name" grew and developed across the course of the movie".
The big problem I had was that to be pretty frank, it was a shitty fucking movie, and "Kid's Name" didn't really develop at all, or grow, or change, or learn new things until the very, very absolute end of the movie, when he had to in order to allow everyone to have a happy ending. I get why things are that way - if he'd had an epiphany in the first five minutes rather than the last five minutes, then the rest of the movie would have been pretty fucking dull, because what's the point?
Now, had they picked a classic horror movie instead of a sappy movie, I could have done it. Take a show like "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer". Sure, it's a meaningless story and stars annoying people, and while it could be argued that it's not school appropriate, I distinctly remember reading the novelization around the age of 10, when I stumbled on it in the English portion of the school library.
The point is that it follows a very classic horror formula:
Take a weak, shy, or innocent girl, and place them with some rowdy friends. She will be the wallflower, the hidden beauty, the one without a boyfriend or with a dick boyfriend.
Put them somewhere remote, and start the creepiness.
At first, she will run and cry and hide, and any boyfriend that is present will spend his time trying to protect her.
By about midway through the movie, some people will be dead, and she will have begun to lose her fear. Research into what is happening will probably begin, maybe the boyfriend will die. As things progress, it will become clear to her that someone needs to really step up.
By the end of the movie, our heroine usually is now well armed, and has fought a battle with the villain. Maybe the boyfriend is dead, maybe not, but regardless, he is unavailable, and she will have to truly face her fears. No longer will she be the wallflower - she's pissed and out to kick ass.
Should the villain be defeated, we will usually be treated to happy scenes afterwards of how much our heroine's life has improved and how much more outgoing she is.
And that, poorly written and thought out as it often is, is far more character development that you can squeeze out of Finding Forrester or movies like it.
So, I ended up doing two essays. One as a persuasive attempt, arguing how there is more character development in shitty B movies that in the tripe I'd been assigned to watch. The other was somewhat more in the curriculum, and was about how LITTLE character development had occurred in the movie, despite the main character constantly being mashed headfirst into ridiculously unlikely and blunt situations that would have given any real person plenty of new perspective on life. Though I don't think I'm overly grammatically correct at this point in my life, nor am I an overly good speller anymore, I know both essays were pretty well written in comparison to those of the rest of my "slow class" peers.
I turned in the second and got nothing but a comment that it was not the assignment. Yay.
Another good example of this that comes to mind is an assignment from the same class, but a different teacher. At the start of the year, to assess our skills, we were asked to read an article on a homeless woman, and then write about what difficulties she might face, or how to help homeless people on a larger scale, or how one's life decisions affect you, etc. etc.
I frankly came up with a blank on most of that shit. Every homeless person I've ever known, not met, but actually known anything about, has ended up in their situation as the result of what were either really, really unfortunate fucking circumstances, mental illness, or because of some really obviously terrible choices, like selling all of their shit for crack. How the fuck do you help someone who lost their life because they were convicted of a crime they were later proven innocent for and have now lost it and can't cope with life, or someone who ran away when they were ten and have lived such a rough life they are now this nearly instinctual, feral creature? Or someone who willingly sold all their shit for crack, and would do so again in three point five seconds flat?
Now that I am older, I could maybe come up with something to say on that.
Unfortunately, at the time I had nothing. So, I tried to write about the difficulties she faced.
Even more unfortunately, no matter how many times I reread the article, I just could not see any sort of indication that this lady actually was all that unhappy with life. Granted, it is not easy being homeless and I'm sure it's a shitty way to live, but for what it was worth, she seemed pretty content with how things were. She had some friends, she could make money delivering papers, and she had a nice little shack to shelter her. Food was usually available at banks if she was broke, and she considered a whole wack of critters that hung around her shack to be her loving pets. The winters were really hard, she stated, and she didn't know how many more of them she could survive, but she figured she could always move to the south end of Ontario and things wouldn't be too bad.
All in all, this left me with nothing. So, once again, two essays.
One, certainly rushed through. Winters suck for homeless people. Not having houses or food sucks for homeless people, though our lucky lady seemed ok on that front. Things in general are harder for homeless people, etc. It was admittedly a piss poor show as there was nothing really to quote from the article besides the two lines about winter.
The second was about how the lady in the article seemed pretty happy considering. The general theme was that here we have a lady with pals, food, and shelter. It's a step above rock bottom, sure, but it's still the same things that all people need, and it's still present. On top of that, she spent the whole article referring to herself by a title used by the pre-Revolutionary French nobility, which makes it pretty clear that she's maybe just a little fucking whacked and may not really perceive herself or her situation the same way we do. She has no major drug problems, and is capable of caring for herself. On top of it all, nowhere does she say she's unhappy or worried, and sounds much more like someone describing their lifestyle to someone else leading a completely different lifestyle than someone in distress. While it might not be the kind of life most people would be happy in, she obviously was, and isn't the whole point of life to just be happy?
I turned in the second essay, because the first was dull and wretched, and got it back with a big note asking where I got the idea she thought she was a French noblewoman (art/"planning" teachers are not usually overly well educated, nor apparently motivated enough to look up terms like "Marquess") from and to come see the teacher.
Who then called me insensitive, that I should lighten up and give life a chance because not everyone is so jaded, and said that life gets better when you get to college and meet other gay people.
Which was certainly much better than the school psychoanalyst/career guidance type person I was later forced to go see asking me in the middle of a battery of job placement questions why I hated the Jews. I'd imagine that even if I did, that would be a really fucking hard question for a 16 or 17 year old to answer when put on the spot like that.
And far better than getting locked out of class for a week because I had to go to the bathroom pretty damn bad, and regardless of how many other people were already in the hall, it was going to happen very shortly, either here, or on the toilet.
So yeah, that's how most of my classes went, and eventually, "went" was something I no longer did in respect to them.
Don't get me wrong, though, I was certainly a problem kid in some ways, and felt I was as mature as any of the teachers. I tended to talk to them as though we were both on the same level, something which most teachers I had did not like, and certainly did not respect any of them, even those who meant well - pretty hard to respect someone who knows nothing about you and still thinks they know best about your sexuality. I can remember many meetings with parents, teachers, and principals where I "won" any argument against the lot of them (teachers side with teachers, not their kids), and left with a mutual apology. Once I was in highschool and the parents had stopped bothering to come, I remember a few great meetings with an angry teacher, the vice principal or some other witness, and the principal, in which I could hear Maurer ripping whomever a new asshole through the door for a good few minutes after the meeting had ended. I am totally sending my kids to school with tape recorders - it pays off eventually.
I was not always so contrary about everything simply because I just fucking love being different and constantly argumentative. I did it because I truly felt that there was no real thought behind those types of assignments and so long as what I wrote or said had good substance, a reasonably valid point, and was well written, then everything the teacher really wanted to see was still there, and maybe it would give them something more interesting to read. Also, I do just fucking love constantly being argumentative.
As it turns out, teachers fucking hate actually having to really read things, something which I can confirm firsthand based on the fact that everyone in my direct family, besides my father's siblings and their kids, are teachers. This includes all my aunts and uncles, barring one aunt who is not only completely worthless to humanity, but is also unemployed, and all my cousins, barring two who have become so fucked up from living in our extended family that they have mentally regressed to the point that one cannot leave their room without a crane and can no longer speak, and the other cannot leave the care center because, now, he will forever be an eight year old. I can safely say that teachers hate reading, because none of these fine folks know anything that you can only learn from a book, and because I got to help grade French papers as a kid.
Anyway, so long as these fancy new college teachers have something a little more interesting to throw at me, things should go smoothly.
Maybe I should become a teacher. It's not in my blood, but it's in my heritage, and I think I could do a better job of it than anyone I had growing up. Plus, I love people to respecting me, forced or not, and always being smarter than everyone else. I don't think I admit that too much, but I certainly have a great personality for it.
Which has really kind of screwed me up a bunch over the years.
Take, for example, my 'Finding Forrester' assignment, one of the few I really remember. We had to watch this movie about this kid who is a basketball star but secretly loves to write, and his relationship with his literary idol.
The big theme of the assignment was "Explain the story, and detail how "Kid's Name" grew and developed across the course of the movie".
The big problem I had was that to be pretty frank, it was a shitty fucking movie, and "Kid's Name" didn't really develop at all, or grow, or change, or learn new things until the very, very absolute end of the movie, when he had to in order to allow everyone to have a happy ending. I get why things are that way - if he'd had an epiphany in the first five minutes rather than the last five minutes, then the rest of the movie would have been pretty fucking dull, because what's the point?
Now, had they picked a classic horror movie instead of a sappy movie, I could have done it. Take a show like "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer". Sure, it's a meaningless story and stars annoying people, and while it could be argued that it's not school appropriate, I distinctly remember reading the novelization around the age of 10, when I stumbled on it in the English portion of the school library.
The point is that it follows a very classic horror formula:
Take a weak, shy, or innocent girl, and place them with some rowdy friends. She will be the wallflower, the hidden beauty, the one without a boyfriend or with a dick boyfriend.
Put them somewhere remote, and start the creepiness.
At first, she will run and cry and hide, and any boyfriend that is present will spend his time trying to protect her.
By about midway through the movie, some people will be dead, and she will have begun to lose her fear. Research into what is happening will probably begin, maybe the boyfriend will die. As things progress, it will become clear to her that someone needs to really step up.
By the end of the movie, our heroine usually is now well armed, and has fought a battle with the villain. Maybe the boyfriend is dead, maybe not, but regardless, he is unavailable, and she will have to truly face her fears. No longer will she be the wallflower - she's pissed and out to kick ass.
Should the villain be defeated, we will usually be treated to happy scenes afterwards of how much our heroine's life has improved and how much more outgoing she is.
And that, poorly written and thought out as it often is, is far more character development that you can squeeze out of Finding Forrester or movies like it.
So, I ended up doing two essays. One as a persuasive attempt, arguing how there is more character development in shitty B movies that in the tripe I'd been assigned to watch. The other was somewhat more in the curriculum, and was about how LITTLE character development had occurred in the movie, despite the main character constantly being mashed headfirst into ridiculously unlikely and blunt situations that would have given any real person plenty of new perspective on life. Though I don't think I'm overly grammatically correct at this point in my life, nor am I an overly good speller anymore, I know both essays were pretty well written in comparison to those of the rest of my "slow class" peers.
I turned in the second and got nothing but a comment that it was not the assignment. Yay.
Another good example of this that comes to mind is an assignment from the same class, but a different teacher. At the start of the year, to assess our skills, we were asked to read an article on a homeless woman, and then write about what difficulties she might face, or how to help homeless people on a larger scale, or how one's life decisions affect you, etc. etc.
I frankly came up with a blank on most of that shit. Every homeless person I've ever known, not met, but actually known anything about, has ended up in their situation as the result of what were either really, really unfortunate fucking circumstances, mental illness, or because of some really obviously terrible choices, like selling all of their shit for crack. How the fuck do you help someone who lost their life because they were convicted of a crime they were later proven innocent for and have now lost it and can't cope with life, or someone who ran away when they were ten and have lived such a rough life they are now this nearly instinctual, feral creature? Or someone who willingly sold all their shit for crack, and would do so again in three point five seconds flat?
Now that I am older, I could maybe come up with something to say on that.
Unfortunately, at the time I had nothing. So, I tried to write about the difficulties she faced.
Even more unfortunately, no matter how many times I reread the article, I just could not see any sort of indication that this lady actually was all that unhappy with life. Granted, it is not easy being homeless and I'm sure it's a shitty way to live, but for what it was worth, she seemed pretty content with how things were. She had some friends, she could make money delivering papers, and she had a nice little shack to shelter her. Food was usually available at banks if she was broke, and she considered a whole wack of critters that hung around her shack to be her loving pets. The winters were really hard, she stated, and she didn't know how many more of them she could survive, but she figured she could always move to the south end of Ontario and things wouldn't be too bad.
All in all, this left me with nothing. So, once again, two essays.
One, certainly rushed through. Winters suck for homeless people. Not having houses or food sucks for homeless people, though our lucky lady seemed ok on that front. Things in general are harder for homeless people, etc. It was admittedly a piss poor show as there was nothing really to quote from the article besides the two lines about winter.
The second was about how the lady in the article seemed pretty happy considering. The general theme was that here we have a lady with pals, food, and shelter. It's a step above rock bottom, sure, but it's still the same things that all people need, and it's still present. On top of that, she spent the whole article referring to herself by a title used by the pre-Revolutionary French nobility, which makes it pretty clear that she's maybe just a little fucking whacked and may not really perceive herself or her situation the same way we do. She has no major drug problems, and is capable of caring for herself. On top of it all, nowhere does she say she's unhappy or worried, and sounds much more like someone describing their lifestyle to someone else leading a completely different lifestyle than someone in distress. While it might not be the kind of life most people would be happy in, she obviously was, and isn't the whole point of life to just be happy?
I turned in the second essay, because the first was dull and wretched, and got it back with a big note asking where I got the idea she thought she was a French noblewoman (art/"planning" teachers are not usually overly well educated, nor apparently motivated enough to look up terms like "Marquess") from and to come see the teacher.
Who then called me insensitive, that I should lighten up and give life a chance because not everyone is so jaded, and said that life gets better when you get to college and meet other gay people.
Which was certainly much better than the school psychoanalyst/career guidance type person I was later forced to go see asking me in the middle of a battery of job placement questions why I hated the Jews. I'd imagine that even if I did, that would be a really fucking hard question for a 16 or 17 year old to answer when put on the spot like that.
And far better than getting locked out of class for a week because I had to go to the bathroom pretty damn bad, and regardless of how many other people were already in the hall, it was going to happen very shortly, either here, or on the toilet.
So yeah, that's how most of my classes went, and eventually, "went" was something I no longer did in respect to them.
Don't get me wrong, though, I was certainly a problem kid in some ways, and felt I was as mature as any of the teachers. I tended to talk to them as though we were both on the same level, something which most teachers I had did not like, and certainly did not respect any of them, even those who meant well - pretty hard to respect someone who knows nothing about you and still thinks they know best about your sexuality. I can remember many meetings with parents, teachers, and principals where I "won" any argument against the lot of them (teachers side with teachers, not their kids), and left with a mutual apology. Once I was in highschool and the parents had stopped bothering to come, I remember a few great meetings with an angry teacher, the vice principal or some other witness, and the principal, in which I could hear Maurer ripping whomever a new asshole through the door for a good few minutes after the meeting had ended. I am totally sending my kids to school with tape recorders - it pays off eventually.
I was not always so contrary about everything simply because I just fucking love being different and constantly argumentative. I did it because I truly felt that there was no real thought behind those types of assignments and so long as what I wrote or said had good substance, a reasonably valid point, and was well written, then everything the teacher really wanted to see was still there, and maybe it would give them something more interesting to read. Also, I do just fucking love constantly being argumentative.
As it turns out, teachers fucking hate actually having to really read things, something which I can confirm firsthand based on the fact that everyone in my direct family, besides my father's siblings and their kids, are teachers. This includes all my aunts and uncles, barring one aunt who is not only completely worthless to humanity, but is also unemployed, and all my cousins, barring two who have become so fucked up from living in our extended family that they have mentally regressed to the point that one cannot leave their room without a crane and can no longer speak, and the other cannot leave the care center because, now, he will forever be an eight year old. I can safely say that teachers hate reading, because none of these fine folks know anything that you can only learn from a book, and because I got to help grade French papers as a kid.
Anyway, so long as these fancy new college teachers have something a little more interesting to throw at me, things should go smoothly.
Maybe I should become a teacher. It's not in my blood, but it's in my heritage, and I think I could do a better job of it than anyone I had growing up. Plus, I love people to respecting me, forced or not, and always being smarter than everyone else. I don't think I admit that too much, but I certainly have a great personality for it.
20.3.14
Takes her time when it's time to get ready
Always has her way
Always leaves me waiting by the phone
She told me more than once to take it slow
And I said "Ok"
But lately I've been sleeping all alone
I'm not breaking up inside
I'm much to proud to moan
Baby, please come home
And I feel a little lucky so I try to play it cool
I think she laughs inside
With words that burn like fire in my mouth
Try to be the man like I got the master plan
Night out on the town
Drinking, dancing, we can turn it out
Maybe it's how your body moves
I just don't know
Maybe it's just the way you move so slow.
Ask me why I play myself, play myself for the fool
Swear that I would do most anything, hey
Walk a mile just to see her smile,
Walk for a mile just to rock for a while
Babe, I'm thinking with my dingaling.
But sitting on the verge of tears
Does not become my 24 years
You took my shame
And you took my pride
Now you're going to take me for a slow ride.
I'm not going crazy,
But I just don't know
Maybe it's the way you move so slow
I am depressed. And have nothing to write.
I've been sitting in the tub for hours, and still those two things persist.
If he thinks that he
Is gonna take you from me
Gotta be a crazy, crazy, crazy
Foolish fool
My love for you is soo strong
We went together for oh so long
Now I'm down, in this misery
Is that the way love's supposed to be?
(Supposed to be, yeah)
I told my mama
My sister too
Is this the way it's got to be?
(Got to be, yeah)
Usually, writing out whatever diddy is stuck in my skull will get some words flowing, but today, I have nothing but meaningless reggae beats, mon.
Nothing except the same old, I guess.
I remember when I was a kid and I used to be so angry all the time. Eventually I realized that there isn't much point in always being pissed off, because the world is how it is.
So now I'm older, and instead of being mad, I'm bored, and depressed, and wondering why I even bother to go through the motions.
There is nothing left to do, and nothing left that really interests me. I spend most of my time locked away inside of my head, thinking about anything that isn't this exact moment.
It's always about getting out of this exact moment, whenever that may be. I don't know why. Maybe it's a hope that the next moment will bring something fresh and interesting and exciting. Or maybe just a very sly sort of inertia. I don't know.
I want a drink, yes I do. I want a drink, how about you?
It's not that the world is this terrible place with nothing to do. It's that it's a pretty mediocre place with nothing left to do that I haven't already done.
I have travelled two continents. I can speak two languages with reasonably fluency, play several instruments with proficiency, and am a capable if untalented painter of space landscapes. I've written enough to be counted as a "book" several times over, though it admittedly would not make a good one. I have a pool of knowledge far beyond that of anyone I think I've ever met, and am generally intelligent enough to put that knowledge to reasonably good use. I've worked in lots of industries, and am usually pretty good at accomplishing whatever I put my mind to. I have recognized and dealt with most of my more negative traits, at least those that are not intentional. I've killed stuff, and cared for stuff, and have had far, far more "grand life experiences" than I think anyone I know really realizes and than I think someone of my age should have had.
And in the sense of the more minor things, I've built working submarines out of legos. I've obtained a 2.5 KTD ration in Black Ops 2, and conquered the world several dozen times in the name of various historical empires in myriad Total War video games. I have built two Dwarf Forts that have made it into the archive favorites. I helped design the Nationstates WA, founded possibly the most successful survivor group in the history of Urban Dead, and am an amateur "expert" in both small arm design and naval engineering on several RPG design forums. I don't usually PLAY RPG games, but have those like Skyrim or (using a loose definition) GTA V down to a science to the extent that they are no longer fun - killing an Ice Dragon with a single uppercut is only fun the first two or eighteen times.
I can cook, very well, though will not usually admit it because I hate making food for other people. I can surf. Well. Probably better than you can, anyway. I grow the second or third best weed ever. The summation here is that I've done lots, seen lots, and have even been good at some of it. There is LOTS to do in life, just nothing I at all really want to do, or at least that I can ever realistically do.
I want to have kids, but don't feel like I will ever feel truly satisfied enough to ever actually do so and be capable of raising them right, not to mention having now met enough of my real siblings (like my half-brother, Steven) to know that I should not be spreading whatever vileness is in my genetics around. I kind of want to be an old man for a while, because I think I'd take to it well. I just don't want to deal with the 40 years in between and my body slowly falling apart. I'd like to spend at least some of those 40 years in a monastery, or maybe as a priest, or maybe just living by myself in the forest or on an island somewhere, but while I have self awareness, I have no self discipline, and while I love yelling and lying to strangers, I'm pretty certain I'd get bored after about two sermons and run out of shit to say, and while I can see nothing more appealing than having my own island to think on or a hermit's life in the woods, my current physical shape and survival skillset are maybe a little more suited to writing massive run on sentences in the bathtub than solitary, longterm survival in a harsh environment.
The other stuff that I guess is kind of an expected part of life just doesn't interest me.
I don't want to get married, ever, because the ceremony seems like it would likely be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable days of my life. I want to be somewhere nice with the person I love on a nice sunny day, just a nice breeze in the background, and as few sentient creatures present as possible, ideally a witch doctor who doesn't speak a lick of english to perform the ceremony, and some dolphins for witnesses.
Did you know that dolphins show signs of being able to use tools?
http://www.livescience.com/21989-dolphin-sponge-tools-culture.html
The sentence "Sponges are filter-feeding invertebrates that come in all shapes and sizes but tend to look like sponges, as they are porous" is excellently dumb.
Anyway. I am likely going to get married in a very grand, Roman Catholic way, because the girls I date always have massive, roads-and-suburbs-named-after-them, buy-some-condom sized Roman Catholic families, and because even someone like Lisa, likely the one of the people who makes the best effort at getting me of anyone I've ever met, would not allow me to deny her girly wedding dreams. So rather than something nice and small and personal, I'm going to end up having to act all serious and put on fake poses for a million pictures and deal with two whole sets of family that I neither relate to or am really comfortable being around. Yay.
I don't want to work anymore, either. There is no point. At one time, I was a stock-monkey who put bananas on a produce shelf so that other monkeys could come buy them at an inflated price. And it all went downhill from there. I was a spy-monkey, who was paid to sit in a chair and watch other monkeys ruin their lives and get shot in parking lots and abandon their kids in their cars while they spun away the last of their welfare cheques and ensure they were smiling through all of it. I was a very unskilled baker-monkey, who flipped sugary death in a fryer and watched a real life soap opera starring other baker-mafia-monkeys. I was a dealer-monkey, keeping other monkeys sedated and happy. I was a guide-monkey, who made up stories about my little village to tell old monkeys. I have had a lot of job titles, and in the end, I'm just a hairless monkey wasting my life scamming, sucking up to, or selling to other hairless monkeys. It's all very meaningless and horrendously inescapable, because our world is set up on the concept of wanting things. I happen to have all the things I want, thank you very much.
I don't want to not work. It gets crushingly dull after the fourth or fifth day.
I don't know. I am now tired and sad and unable to complete thoughts in an interesting manner.
On the plus side, I guess I wasn't out of stuff to write after all.
I wanna be that guy.
Always has her way
Always leaves me waiting by the phone
She told me more than once to take it slow
And I said "Ok"
But lately I've been sleeping all alone
I'm not breaking up inside
I'm much to proud to moan
Baby, please come home
And I feel a little lucky so I try to play it cool
I think she laughs inside
With words that burn like fire in my mouth
Try to be the man like I got the master plan
Night out on the town
Drinking, dancing, we can turn it out
Maybe it's how your body moves
I just don't know
Maybe it's just the way you move so slow.
Ask me why I play myself, play myself for the fool
Swear that I would do most anything, hey
Walk a mile just to see her smile,
Walk for a mile just to rock for a while
Babe, I'm thinking with my dingaling.
But sitting on the verge of tears
Does not become my 24 years
You took my shame
And you took my pride
Now you're going to take me for a slow ride.
I'm not going crazy,
But I just don't know
Maybe it's the way you move so slow
I am depressed. And have nothing to write.
I've been sitting in the tub for hours, and still those two things persist.
If he thinks that he
Is gonna take you from me
Gotta be a crazy, crazy, crazy
Foolish fool
My love for you is soo strong
We went together for oh so long
Now I'm down, in this misery
Is that the way love's supposed to be?
(Supposed to be, yeah)
I told my mama
My sister too
Is this the way it's got to be?
(Got to be, yeah)
Usually, writing out whatever diddy is stuck in my skull will get some words flowing, but today, I have nothing but meaningless reggae beats, mon.
Nothing except the same old, I guess.
I remember when I was a kid and I used to be so angry all the time. Eventually I realized that there isn't much point in always being pissed off, because the world is how it is.
So now I'm older, and instead of being mad, I'm bored, and depressed, and wondering why I even bother to go through the motions.
There is nothing left to do, and nothing left that really interests me. I spend most of my time locked away inside of my head, thinking about anything that isn't this exact moment.
It's always about getting out of this exact moment, whenever that may be. I don't know why. Maybe it's a hope that the next moment will bring something fresh and interesting and exciting. Or maybe just a very sly sort of inertia. I don't know.
I want a drink, yes I do. I want a drink, how about you?
It's not that the world is this terrible place with nothing to do. It's that it's a pretty mediocre place with nothing left to do that I haven't already done.
I have travelled two continents. I can speak two languages with reasonably fluency, play several instruments with proficiency, and am a capable if untalented painter of space landscapes. I've written enough to be counted as a "book" several times over, though it admittedly would not make a good one. I have a pool of knowledge far beyond that of anyone I think I've ever met, and am generally intelligent enough to put that knowledge to reasonably good use. I've worked in lots of industries, and am usually pretty good at accomplishing whatever I put my mind to. I have recognized and dealt with most of my more negative traits, at least those that are not intentional. I've killed stuff, and cared for stuff, and have had far, far more "grand life experiences" than I think anyone I know really realizes and than I think someone of my age should have had.
And in the sense of the more minor things, I've built working submarines out of legos. I've obtained a 2.5 KTD ration in Black Ops 2, and conquered the world several dozen times in the name of various historical empires in myriad Total War video games. I have built two Dwarf Forts that have made it into the archive favorites. I helped design the Nationstates WA, founded possibly the most successful survivor group in the history of Urban Dead, and am an amateur "expert" in both small arm design and naval engineering on several RPG design forums. I don't usually PLAY RPG games, but have those like Skyrim or (using a loose definition) GTA V down to a science to the extent that they are no longer fun - killing an Ice Dragon with a single uppercut is only fun the first two or eighteen times.
I can cook, very well, though will not usually admit it because I hate making food for other people. I can surf. Well. Probably better than you can, anyway. I grow the second or third best weed ever. The summation here is that I've done lots, seen lots, and have even been good at some of it. There is LOTS to do in life, just nothing I at all really want to do, or at least that I can ever realistically do.
I want to have kids, but don't feel like I will ever feel truly satisfied enough to ever actually do so and be capable of raising them right, not to mention having now met enough of my real siblings (like my half-brother, Steven) to know that I should not be spreading whatever vileness is in my genetics around. I kind of want to be an old man for a while, because I think I'd take to it well. I just don't want to deal with the 40 years in between and my body slowly falling apart. I'd like to spend at least some of those 40 years in a monastery, or maybe as a priest, or maybe just living by myself in the forest or on an island somewhere, but while I have self awareness, I have no self discipline, and while I love yelling and lying to strangers, I'm pretty certain I'd get bored after about two sermons and run out of shit to say, and while I can see nothing more appealing than having my own island to think on or a hermit's life in the woods, my current physical shape and survival skillset are maybe a little more suited to writing massive run on sentences in the bathtub than solitary, longterm survival in a harsh environment.
The other stuff that I guess is kind of an expected part of life just doesn't interest me.
I don't want to get married, ever, because the ceremony seems like it would likely be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable days of my life. I want to be somewhere nice with the person I love on a nice sunny day, just a nice breeze in the background, and as few sentient creatures present as possible, ideally a witch doctor who doesn't speak a lick of english to perform the ceremony, and some dolphins for witnesses.
Did you know that dolphins show signs of being able to use tools?
http://www.livescience.com/21989-dolphin-sponge-tools-culture.html
The sentence "Sponges are filter-feeding invertebrates that come in all shapes and sizes but tend to look like sponges, as they are porous" is excellently dumb.
Anyway. I am likely going to get married in a very grand, Roman Catholic way, because the girls I date always have massive, roads-and-suburbs-named-after-them, buy-some-condom sized Roman Catholic families, and because even someone like Lisa, likely the one of the people who makes the best effort at getting me of anyone I've ever met, would not allow me to deny her girly wedding dreams. So rather than something nice and small and personal, I'm going to end up having to act all serious and put on fake poses for a million pictures and deal with two whole sets of family that I neither relate to or am really comfortable being around. Yay.
I don't want to work anymore, either. There is no point. At one time, I was a stock-monkey who put bananas on a produce shelf so that other monkeys could come buy them at an inflated price. And it all went downhill from there. I was a spy-monkey, who was paid to sit in a chair and watch other monkeys ruin their lives and get shot in parking lots and abandon their kids in their cars while they spun away the last of their welfare cheques and ensure they were smiling through all of it. I was a very unskilled baker-monkey, who flipped sugary death in a fryer and watched a real life soap opera starring other baker-mafia-monkeys. I was a dealer-monkey, keeping other monkeys sedated and happy. I was a guide-monkey, who made up stories about my little village to tell old monkeys. I have had a lot of job titles, and in the end, I'm just a hairless monkey wasting my life scamming, sucking up to, or selling to other hairless monkeys. It's all very meaningless and horrendously inescapable, because our world is set up on the concept of wanting things. I happen to have all the things I want, thank you very much.
I don't want to not work. It gets crushingly dull after the fourth or fifth day.
I don't know. I am now tired and sad and unable to complete thoughts in an interesting manner.
On the plus side, I guess I wasn't out of stuff to write after all.
I wanna be that guy.
18.3.14
7.3.14
3.3.14
We should have just killed you when we had the chance.
Someone, anyone, needs to slap you. Hard. And then maybe give you a bit of a reality check.
Causes like yours, while nominally for a "good" one, are not all that good when they are supported by people like you.
And people like you only support such causes so vehemently because they, like you, are unpopular and against the norm, and give "depth" and meaning to your useless existence. You have no personality, and a shitty life, so you cling on to stuff like this in an effort to bully others in a politically correct way so that you can feel better about being completely average and uninteresting.
It fucking disgusts me, and in the end, it just leaves me and I'm sure many people like me with nothing but resentment for the otherwise reasonably good ideals your little bullshit factory is based around.
Causes like yours, while nominally for a "good" one, are not all that good when they are supported by people like you.
And people like you only support such causes so vehemently because they, like you, are unpopular and against the norm, and give "depth" and meaning to your useless existence. You have no personality, and a shitty life, so you cling on to stuff like this in an effort to bully others in a politically correct way so that you can feel better about being completely average and uninteresting.
It fucking disgusts me, and in the end, it just leaves me and I'm sure many people like me with nothing but resentment for the otherwise reasonably good ideals your little bullshit factory is based around.
1.3.14
And I feel a little lucky, so I try to play it cool. I think she laughs inside.
People are pretty goofy sometimes.
On a somewhat related note, I.E. goofiness:
http://www.sunnewsnetwork.ca/video/3272438235001#3237878836001
Watch that.
It's times like these I wish I had a wider audience, so I could ask
"What's your thoughts?"
and get more than one reply.
I personally believe that if I am in the midst of ripping those lacey little things off with my teeth, it is because consent has already been given, or at least is very, very much so implied. I am aware that no does indeed mean no, and I'd really like to think whoever I'm with is sensible enough to say so if they are uncomfortable.
Should I ever get down to the skivvy's and find a pair of these, I can almost assure you sex is not happening, no matter what ANYONE wants.
Other silliness:
http://io9.com/nigerian-grad-student-uses-magnets-to-prove-gay-marri-1326215449
Cause, you know, magnets are people too. Or something.
On a somewhat related note, I.E. goofiness:
http://www.sunnewsnetwork.ca/video/3272438235001#3237878836001
Watch that.
It's times like these I wish I had a wider audience, so I could ask
"What's your thoughts?"
and get more than one reply.
I personally believe that if I am in the midst of ripping those lacey little things off with my teeth, it is because consent has already been given, or at least is very, very much so implied. I am aware that no does indeed mean no, and I'd really like to think whoever I'm with is sensible enough to say so if they are uncomfortable.
Should I ever get down to the skivvy's and find a pair of these, I can almost assure you sex is not happening, no matter what ANYONE wants.
Other silliness:
http://io9.com/nigerian-grad-student-uses-magnets-to-prove-gay-marri-1326215449
Cause, you know, magnets are people too. Or something.
The best part about not bothering to go to work for a week is that no one can really say anything - I still have a much better attendance record than most of the people there.
Less fun is finding a convincing way to present myself as still slightly sick.
This time, I've opted to keep it simple - bags under the eyes, scratchy voice, and a bruised face.
Why the face?
Well, I've decided my recent illness is actually going to end up being some form of allergies. As of such, my face has swollen to massive proportions, which means a bruise would logically result.
There are three good ways to do this.
1. I can walk into something, very fast.
2. I can rig a bag of apples to swing from the ceiling, and hit me in the face.
3. I can get someone relatively strong, like Logan, to slap me.
The key to any of the above working well is to get ice on it right away, to bring the bruising out. Otherwise, I will simply end up with a sore face.
Should I be unable to successfully get a bruise, and, more importantly, some nice, big junkie sized bags under my eyes, I will revert to plan B.
This consists of two steps to be executed throughout the week.
Firstly, I will need to vomit at least once a day. This is pretty easy - when you spend your life drinking, you learn to puke on demand - but is quite gross, and I spend the rest of the day feeling my stomach acid eating away my teeth.
Secondly, I need one good collapse, preferably on camera, but when no one is around. I have not intentionally done this before, though there is enough significantly wrong with me healthwise that it will invariably happen after a few days without proper food. I plan to do this in the staffroom - the thump will be audible to pretty much everyone in the store, but no one will be around to instantly offer aide and fuck up my "lie down and twitch for a minute" act.
YOu might be wondering, why all this effort? Why not just say "I was sick" and leave it at that?
There is a simple answer and a complex answer.
Simply put, it's fun, almost like acting, really. I enjoy nothing more in life than always being something and someone new, and "plague victim" is a role I've been keen on for a bit. It's also much more plausible to have taken a week off when you're still a little sick at the end of that week.
Complexly put, if I can miss enough days and still seem legitimately sick, then I am likely to get "laid off", which means I will get both a good reference and a hefty severance package. This is ideal because not only does it give me a problem free way out of my shitty, hateful job, but it will also leave me with a month's pay that I did not need to work for, something which upright quitting would not do. Before this happens, I would like to take advantage of our company's dental plan, so this go around will be nothing more than a trial run. I would also like to take advantage of the fact that my predecessor had a nervous breakdown by emulating it slightly, thusly getting myself a prescription for Valium, which will cost nothing with the company's healthcare plan, and can then be sold to support me financially for at least a month, should I somehow have an issue finding new work.
And really. I am not skipping work because I am lazy - I am doing so because I work with the absolute worst fucking people I've ever met and hate being there. Sitting at home with jack shit to do for a week is really, really fucking boring. Finding creative ways to get fired, and coming up with plausible illnesses, is much more fun that just sitting here and thinking.
More than any of that, I feel my employers deserve shitty performance, because as much as they are rather nice people, they have no management skills, blame me for nearly everything that goes wrong whether I had anything to do with it or not, do not give me any days off, have not given me a raise in two years, and allow the people I work with to fuck around incessantly, to the point where I cannot do my job properly even if I wanted to. They have created a massively shitty work environment, to the point that they're kind of lucky the staff is just lazy and resentful, and not actively suing them or eachother.
Possibly more importantly, despite all the shit I get for my co-workers fuck ups, they are so oblivious to what is going on there that despite the fact I will straight up tell customers how shitty the store is and that they should buy things elsewhere, and it is well known amongst pretty much everyone who works there that I am just itching to say FUCK YOU and quit, no one has ever even remotely commented on it.
So yeah. I'd much rather put my time and effort into something I find entertaining than give it to them.
Let's see, what else is new?
Oh, that's right, nothing. Because I haven't left my house in a week!
Less fun is finding a convincing way to present myself as still slightly sick.
This time, I've opted to keep it simple - bags under the eyes, scratchy voice, and a bruised face.
Why the face?
Well, I've decided my recent illness is actually going to end up being some form of allergies. As of such, my face has swollen to massive proportions, which means a bruise would logically result.
There are three good ways to do this.
1. I can walk into something, very fast.
2. I can rig a bag of apples to swing from the ceiling, and hit me in the face.
3. I can get someone relatively strong, like Logan, to slap me.
The key to any of the above working well is to get ice on it right away, to bring the bruising out. Otherwise, I will simply end up with a sore face.
Should I be unable to successfully get a bruise, and, more importantly, some nice, big junkie sized bags under my eyes, I will revert to plan B.
This consists of two steps to be executed throughout the week.
Firstly, I will need to vomit at least once a day. This is pretty easy - when you spend your life drinking, you learn to puke on demand - but is quite gross, and I spend the rest of the day feeling my stomach acid eating away my teeth.
Secondly, I need one good collapse, preferably on camera, but when no one is around. I have not intentionally done this before, though there is enough significantly wrong with me healthwise that it will invariably happen after a few days without proper food. I plan to do this in the staffroom - the thump will be audible to pretty much everyone in the store, but no one will be around to instantly offer aide and fuck up my "lie down and twitch for a minute" act.
YOu might be wondering, why all this effort? Why not just say "I was sick" and leave it at that?
There is a simple answer and a complex answer.
Simply put, it's fun, almost like acting, really. I enjoy nothing more in life than always being something and someone new, and "plague victim" is a role I've been keen on for a bit. It's also much more plausible to have taken a week off when you're still a little sick at the end of that week.
Complexly put, if I can miss enough days and still seem legitimately sick, then I am likely to get "laid off", which means I will get both a good reference and a hefty severance package. This is ideal because not only does it give me a problem free way out of my shitty, hateful job, but it will also leave me with a month's pay that I did not need to work for, something which upright quitting would not do. Before this happens, I would like to take advantage of our company's dental plan, so this go around will be nothing more than a trial run. I would also like to take advantage of the fact that my predecessor had a nervous breakdown by emulating it slightly, thusly getting myself a prescription for Valium, which will cost nothing with the company's healthcare plan, and can then be sold to support me financially for at least a month, should I somehow have an issue finding new work.
And really. I am not skipping work because I am lazy - I am doing so because I work with the absolute worst fucking people I've ever met and hate being there. Sitting at home with jack shit to do for a week is really, really fucking boring. Finding creative ways to get fired, and coming up with plausible illnesses, is much more fun that just sitting here and thinking.
More than any of that, I feel my employers deserve shitty performance, because as much as they are rather nice people, they have no management skills, blame me for nearly everything that goes wrong whether I had anything to do with it or not, do not give me any days off, have not given me a raise in two years, and allow the people I work with to fuck around incessantly, to the point where I cannot do my job properly even if I wanted to. They have created a massively shitty work environment, to the point that they're kind of lucky the staff is just lazy and resentful, and not actively suing them or eachother.
Possibly more importantly, despite all the shit I get for my co-workers fuck ups, they are so oblivious to what is going on there that despite the fact I will straight up tell customers how shitty the store is and that they should buy things elsewhere, and it is well known amongst pretty much everyone who works there that I am just itching to say FUCK YOU and quit, no one has ever even remotely commented on it.
So yeah. I'd much rather put my time and effort into something I find entertaining than give it to them.
Let's see, what else is new?
Oh, that's right, nothing. Because I haven't left my house in a week!
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