And I hated the uniform – and that my weirdness kept on sticking out of it.
And the God-awful boredom crushed the spring in my soul.
But I had a couple of mildly tolerable subjects, English and Home Economics.
'Cause Home Economics seemed to add plenty to my purpose - some cooking practicals – a useful life skill, I think, the ability to make lasagne and Choux paste... And when running my own café market stall, summers off from college, I always sold out of chocolate éclairs!
Still, I never learned how to be a “Chef in the kitchen, a hoor in the bedroom...” and I forget the last one... nor was I taught how to rouge my cheeks, for the man in my life – the subject's un-endearing stereotype... but was always impressed by teacher’s talent, for matching eye-shadow to outfit – perhaps a skill that she had learned in her own Home Economics classes. And only a few brave boys, cooked along with us gals... dunno whether or not they were disappointed by the lacking in cheek rouging education.
And I liked the science bit, in Domestic Science - what they call it these days I think... even though proper science, induced my head to short circuit – seeing as none of it made any sense. But the stereotypical, mad scientist running the show was a bit of a lark. What with rumours he’d 'left’ his last post, after blowing up the school swimming pool - a vital science experiment, no doubt...
– and then, I used my Biology book for drawing detailed sketches of lizards and intestines - when I was only sposed to be writing about them...and they were always met with an underwhelming response, from an underwhelming teacher – the perfect example of a brilliant mind doing a bad job...and throwing text books at the heads of eejits, a good release for her poor career choice believe...
Still, it is only now, that I am fully relishing my English classes... My teacher, Mrs C, was one hell-a-va classy bird...
Though, she never told us as why it was called 'English' class - seeing as we was already talking the language real good. Though she is responsible for filling a pool in my subconscious – and I’m dipping into it daily, writing now about my good, my ugly and my pretty...for no apparent reason, other than I likes it a fair bit...
And Mrs C's class, is also the root of my devout grammar snobbery – unfortunately this current confession, puts on a lot of pressure for me not to cock up in my writings... although, may haps writing can be a bit like abstract painting – one can only make a good one, if one can paint properly first...
So this snobbery spills over, when a very much alive individual stands before me, exclaiming, “I literally fell over and died!” Well the still standing, figuratively dead person, is in for an almighty eye rolling from me.
But perhaps Michael Stipe, of the REM was right, “Judge not, lest ye be judged...” he is my very own personal Jesus after all...
But not even JC himself, could curse out the demon that was my Geography 'teacher'. And I suppose dossing in his lessons concerning map reading, is the reason why I get lost in finding my way out of my own bath tub...and also, why a Google map, is my greatest ever Everest...
Now I take comfort feeding myself some bullshit – “Creative geniuses haven’t space to occupy their brilliant mind’s with the mundanity of pish-posh and good navigation!”
And although my brilliant brain dossed in Geography – regrettably, I didn’t get to skip out on the slimy prick in charge of it. Even though since then, my maturity has painted over his big prick, systematically taking daily dumpings into my subconscious.
Confessing too, I’ve tendencies toward occasional prattery – however, this smarmy sod only kept on-a-shite'n', all up in my malleable mind...“Useless - stupid - never amount to anything...yada-yada-yada...”
“Never” being my most damaging of words – ‘cause all of the kids I’ve partaken in raising - will only ever hear from me, that they are everything and anything is possible.
And so, now I'm stocked up with Pine fresh Toilet Duck – for when all the little shits pull down their kaks in order to crap into my psyche...
But I guess, at the end of it all - school was my very own mental institution -
Forcing me to choose between being a ‘butcher, a baker or a candle stick maker.’
But my School of life –
Only learned me -
that if I really want to be -
I can be all three.
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