Holy shit…you guys are the cat’s meow…let me tell you. You seniors…
But you don’t need me to tell you. Am I right? You already know just exactly how goddamn awesome you are. And some of you really are. But others, not so much.
You come in late, or nor at all. You complain about how stressful your life is. You sleep in class…because you are sooo stressed.
What’s with you guys? I know you are stressed. The stress is maybe a little like alcohol. They say it enhances your personality. But what if you’re a lazy douche bag? Then what?
I think the alcohol comparison is pretty good. This is the end of the road for everybody. I just got a text message from a senior I had taught in American Government who was all mad that I didn’t explain to her that Animal Farm was really about the Russian Revolution and Stalin’s rise to power. The real reason is that for most kids, after the unavoidable two days of explaining that pigs can’t really talk, I would have had to spend a week explaining what an allegory is, another week studying where Russia is on a “map”, and then talking about the Czar and how the Bolsheviks wanted…and suddenly it’s 2015. Anyway, what she did was above and beyond the call for somebody who’s really got it quite made and is about to get out of high school very soon unless she runs screaming up the steps of the capital with a metal box taped to her head. She’s the best.
The great, swollen middle is the people who mostly don’t give a shit, but will climb out of their holes every so often just long enough to do what they have to do to graduate/not take this class again. They are relatively unchanged in these end times because they have mastered the craft of hovering in the range of performance significantly below mediocrity and just above death. They could make us all proud if only their teachers would have better organized lessons.
This brings us to the mysterious fuckers. They are impervious to anything. I could say, “Hey, Jimmy….so…I noticed you haven’t been turning in any of the projects or coming to class more than once a week. You know the semester is ending soon, right? Do you want to graduate?”
“Yeah” says Jimmy. “I got you.”
“Ok, but what does that mean? ‘I got you’? …You say that every time I ask you anything. I’m starting to think you’re a moron and that ‘I got you’ really just means ‘what? me dum-dum’. You’re going to fail if you don’t get these projects done. Do you need help?”
“Do you have a rough draft?”
“But you told me you would give me a rough draft last week.”
“I got you. I’m about to, but my…”
“FUCK YOU!!!!! If you ever tell me anything ever again about something you are ‘about to do’…ever…I will stab this pencil right through your heart. I don’t give a flying fuck what you are about to do. I care about what you are doing and what you have done. I could waste another year of my life describing all the simple shit you haven’t done that you told me you were “about to do”. Have another drink of senior-itis and I’ll see you back here next year if I don’t get fired.”
Pray for us both. But I’m not sure what for.