Alone again, naturally
I think I'm going a little overboard tutoring math this year. I am loudly and proudly domaining and ranging left right and centre. My Math dial goes all the way to eleven. I have 4 students, all in the same grade at the same school, and it's all the same math . . . but I have BAGGAGE about it. Grade 11 Math, that is.
See, Mr. Bodi TERRIFIED me. I was the shrinking violet, he the pesticide. He would constantly have the class compete against each other in Math wars, points awarded to the first person with the right answer in their group; he had divided us into the Smart Group, Normal Group, and Stupid Group. I don't math well under pressure. I was in the Stupid Group. He later went on to rename the groups Strong, Average, and Less Strong, but it still stung.
I was a rampant artist in high school, especially loving caricatures, and did a whole 2-page spread of our teachers in caricature for the yearbook with each department having a different theme. The Math department I made into a Jurassic Park thing, with all the kind and mathy teacher's heads adorning the bodies of paleontologists. They were running from a T-Rex whose head had been replaced by that of Mr. Bodi. Just to give you an idea.
I am glad to announce that Grade 11 Math is not the least bit scary anymore, nor is that evil teacher. So Mr. Bodi, wherever you are: f(g(h(3))) is my bitch now. You, on the other hand, are still in the Moron Group as far as I'm concerned.
So it's my second last day here, so I've been a professional goof-off. My supervisor's not even here. I could be less motivated, but only with a major dose of Valium. This leaves plenty of time for moping.
I've noticed quite a few of us on LJ have suffered breakups in the past few months. I think we should start some kind of club, with a pledge, and a crest (possibly depicting a black heart with a spear through it next to a pitcher of beer), and regular meetings where everyone gets drunk and we maraud around toilet papering our exes' house, replacing the battery in their car with a large watermelon, etc. Any joiners?
It's probably good that I'm busy and can distract myself with things. Like my drums . . . although he IS a musician, so that may set me off. But then there's the new apartment . . . but he was going to help me move. Oh, the new job! Nothing about molecular and cell biology says 'Ryan' to me . . . except for the fact that he's, you know, MADE of molecules and cells. But DIABOLICAL ones. Heartless ones. Evil little ribosomes with black capes and fangs, and twisted barbed-wire double helices.
J. Geils said it best: Love stinks. Yeah, yeah.
See, Mr. Bodi TERRIFIED me. I was the shrinking violet, he the pesticide. He would constantly have the class compete against each other in Math wars, points awarded to the first person with the right answer in their group; he had divided us into the Smart Group, Normal Group, and Stupid Group. I don't math well under pressure. I was in the Stupid Group. He later went on to rename the groups Strong, Average, and Less Strong, but it still stung.
I was a rampant artist in high school, especially loving caricatures, and did a whole 2-page spread of our teachers in caricature for the yearbook with each department having a different theme. The Math department I made into a Jurassic Park thing, with all the kind and mathy teacher's heads adorning the bodies of paleontologists. They were running from a T-Rex whose head had been replaced by that of Mr. Bodi. Just to give you an idea.
I am glad to announce that Grade 11 Math is not the least bit scary anymore, nor is that evil teacher. So Mr. Bodi, wherever you are: f(g(h(3))) is my bitch now. You, on the other hand, are still in the Moron Group as far as I'm concerned.
So it's my second last day here, so I've been a professional goof-off. My supervisor's not even here. I could be less motivated, but only with a major dose of Valium. This leaves plenty of time for moping.
I've noticed quite a few of us on LJ have suffered breakups in the past few months. I think we should start some kind of club, with a pledge, and a crest (possibly depicting a black heart with a spear through it next to a pitcher of beer), and regular meetings where everyone gets drunk and we maraud around toilet papering our exes' house, replacing the battery in their car with a large watermelon, etc. Any joiners?
It's probably good that I'm busy and can distract myself with things. Like my drums . . . although he IS a musician, so that may set me off. But then there's the new apartment . . . but he was going to help me move. Oh, the new job! Nothing about molecular and cell biology says 'Ryan' to me . . . except for the fact that he's, you know, MADE of molecules and cells. But DIABOLICAL ones. Heartless ones. Evil little ribosomes with black capes and fangs, and twisted barbed-wire double helices.
J. Geils said it best: Love stinks. Yeah, yeah.