"But think of it this way: at least you don't have to go to school!" Citichild is complaining about going to work, but at least they pay you to go. This is the first fall she doesn't have to go back to school.
Every September I am so thankful that I don't have to go ever again. With that touch of crispness in the air last week, I was just starting to get down on my knees to praise the Great Spaghetti Monster from Outer Space who Designed Us All with fervent gratitude when I realized—shit, I do have to go back to school this year. A week from tomorrow, in fact. Why did I take on a story that requires principals, text books, teachers' dirty looks and that awful green hall color? What an idiot. I think the GSM made some fairly grave errors in designing my brain.
Why I can't stop: I hate school.
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This blog used to be called "Why I Can't Stop Smoking." Well, I did stop smoking. Now I need to stop drinking. The only thing is, every day there seems to be a reason why I can't just yet. It worked before, so—here goes! Today's reason
mr. and mrs. jones
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About Me
- Claudia
- The sister of the President of the Garden Club, a former journalist (People, Life) and now vacation rental property manager on an island once known as Claudia's Island, Claudia has honed her bedmaking skills and seldom travels without a truckload of substandard chairs.
7 comments:
I hated school. I still hate school. To this day, there are two...no, three things that really set me off. One is the question: "What shall we do about a} lunch b} dinner?" The next is the term "Eat-in kitchen". I know, I know...all of you who do not have estates with butler's pantries and so forth, covet the eat-in.
The third thing is college campusues. Even passing by them makes me ill. I wish I had spent my formative years in jail instead of school. But wait...School IS jail. I guess those 18 yars a school larned me sumpthing.
School is really, really bad. But honestly, working might be worse. You dont learn ANYTHING and you can't cut class or be late. And you don't get summers off...and you can't have a job on the side and not worry about just how Prestigious it is because you already go to one of the top colleges. Okay. So school sucks and work sucks. One you pay for, one you get paid for, sometimes your mother pays for both. I have come up with the perfect solution: I am going to be a model. And then from my fame I will start a National Park. I am going to call myself Wolfen and sport an afro. No school and no job...Jealous?
Did i mention that i am going to rock an afro?
Glad to read you have given your spiritual self to His Noodly Appendage, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and become a Pastafarian. You know, of course, that September 15th is the birthday of His Most Holy Prophet, Marco Polo, and that the Pastafarian's most sacred holiday, Talk Like a Pirate Day, follows on the 19th. Sing His praises and pray that He will give us this day our daily noodle.
I once had a classmate.
But then she graduated.
For years and years I simply wondered where she was.
Now that I have finally found her
I'm think I may have to hound her.
But her Mom just told me
"She's dead."
Its not like I'll really miss her.
She never let me kiss her.
But somehow I've got to get her
Out of my head.
I just want to share my feelings
Send my ancient demons reeling.
But her Mom told me "She's Dead."
Actually, this song reminds me a lot of "Clementine"—one of my all-time faves.
And I do kind of wonder what became of Scott, he of the caviar and siver spoons and the Jeep I had to drive with him shifting because he was too young to drive at night. His mother ran away to play the ukulele in Greenwich Village. We fucked on the beach in Nantucket. And then he ran away to California, and I ran away to play the ukulele. But not in the Village.
However, I know he's not dead, because he's listed on Classmates.com. I think his best friend, also named Scott, who I also fucked, might be, though.
PS I've never really liked the name Scott, any more than Dennis or Biff.
It's six in the morning. I'm moving today. About two thirds of my shit is packed. I don't know if I expect if some moving fairy godmother (claude, I know it ain't you - you're the other fairy godmother) is going to show up and help me with the rest. Much to the horror of everyone, I think I'll just toss it all in boxes and deal with it in the Bronx. Murray Kempton once said, "Denial is a good thing." Isn't that true.
I'm as anxious as a first-grader on the first day of school...
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