Epilogue
What in the actual fuck?
Every day. My most commonly occurring thought.
Are these people for real?
I sit here typing as they buzz around. The one who won't leave me alone. The one who always has tragic drama. The one who's about to split her pants. The angry gay man. The happy gay man. The grumpy old woman. The gossiper.
What a friggin' motley crew.
I've always had a difficult time tooting my own horn, but god damn, these people make me want to shout from the roof tops, "THANK GOD I'M NOT YOU."
I'm a special education teacher. I'm very used to weird shit happening in my classroom on the daily. Here's the kicker, though. The weird ones aren't my students.
I mean, yeah, they are. But nothing compared to the whackadoodles my administration has deemed competent enough to work in my classroom, teaching and influencing students with disabilities. Being in high school, a primary focus of instruction is preparation for life after they exit these doors. How am I supposed to do that successfully when these ding dongs are in here acting a fool?
I ain't heard that in a while.
Oh trust me, I seen it happen with mine own eyes.
This is actual shit adults say, in my ENGLISH classes of all places. For real, my four year old speaks better than some of them.
I'm going to go out on a limb and guess, dear reader, that you've never been to a little town called Greenbush, Maine. Let me paint you a picture: Deliverance. Just as few teeth, just as many nut jobs with shotguns, probably as many questionable deaths being covered up by good ol' boys in the deep woods. If you haven't got a clue still, know this: these people belong as far from a classroom or educating children as possible.
