but my license is still missing

SpongeBob SquarePants  {Sentence Starters}

  • “I’ll have you know that I stubbed by toe last week and only cried for 20 minutes.”
  • “Well, at least I still have my personality.”
  • “It feels like somebody… wants to sell me something!”
  • “You don’t need a license to drive a sandwich.”
  • “The inner mechinations of my mind are an enigma.”
  • “We finally got enough people for a seven-mile spanking machine!”
  • “Fine. I guess you’re gonna miss the… panty raid.”
  • “You just can’t WAIT for me to die, can you?”
  • “Firmly grasp it in your hand. Firmly GRASP IT!”
  • “Well, I gotta admit, that slowed me down.”
  • “Do you smell it? That smell, the kind of smelly smell. A smelly smell that smells… smelly. “
  • “Is Mayonnaise an instrument?”
  • “Goodbye, everyone. I’ll remember you all in therapy.”
  • “It took three days to make that potato salad…three days!”
  • “I’m ugly and I’m proud.”
  • “Chocolate? Chocolate! CHOCOLATE!”
  • “F is for fire that burns down the whole town! U is for Uranium…bombs! N is for no survivors!”
  • “Can I be excused for the rest of my life?”
  • “Too bad that didn’t kill me.”
  • “Well, it’s no secret that the best thing about a secret is secretly telling someone your secret, thereby, secretly adding another secret to their secret collection of secret, secretly.”
  • “Do instruments of torture count?”
  • “Remember, licking doorknobs is illegal on other planets.”

The color of the sun is green. A Ford Escape drives beside me on the highway with two men in the front. The one in the passenger side wears a black shirt, no. A red shirt, no. A purple shirt. Oh. It’s a white shirt. No, it’s not a shirt; it’s a white robe, and he’s wearing a crown of thorns. The man who is driving applies makeup in the rearview mirror. I notice the back left wheel is missing. I continue to drive myself to the Olympics. Oh, Wait. The Olympics aren’t this year. Thinking hard about a new destination, I crash my car in a head on collision with a hearse. The last thing I remember is the front license plate reading “7777777.” I black out, but wake up unscathed minutes later. Something is off, and I feel different. But I cannot seem to know exactly what it is. I climb out of the rubble with ease.

I still need a new destination. I want to make friends, so I decide to walk to the police station. I greet the officer at the front, and start small talk about criminals. They’re all so pathetic, I say. Complete morons. Contribute nothing to society. Free loaders. I’ve only ever sworn once, I say. I am then immediately taken into custody. “That’s a confession of sin,” the officer says. There is a halo floating above his head.

I am arrested for swearing. Inside the jail cell, I light a cigarette and put my phone on the charger. The cigarette is broken and a daisy is sprouting from the end. I am charged with two felonies. What is the second one for? I ask. They say that I cut my bangs horribly, and will be forced to wear a plastic bag over my head. I insist for paper. I tell them to think about the environment. Global warming is a threat, endangering the lives of the glaciers enough already. Pedestrian litter like plastic bags could cause them to choke, and thus will affect the harvest of their meat for the ice industry. They agree. I use a 50% off coupon for my bail charge and I am sent home with a paper bag on my head. They say I must wear it for a total of twenty hours within the week. On the back of the bag printed in bold time new roman reads “We’re so sorry. We’re so sorry for who you are.”

There are no holes for my eyes to see. As I put it on, I find a screen inside with a video on a constant loop. The loop playing is of a girl in my image wearing a white slip walking between the corners of a room with no windows or door, 6x6 enclosure. I take the bag off so that I am able to watch a documentary about fiber optics installation. I put the bag back on and the loop has changed. The girl in my image is now laying down on the floor of the room, staring blank up at the ceiling. I find my physical body forced to the floor, unable sit back up. I say that I must water the garden. I take the bag off. The zucchini is dying. I tend to the zucchini, nursing her with milk and sugar. I put the bag back on. The loop has changed again, the girl is now strapped down in an electrical chair, and now is having a knife pushed into her leg by an invisible force. I feel a sharp pain on the leg of my physical body, and I am wounded. The wound heals at the beginning of each loop. As it plays over and over again, my body is in sync with every repeated puncture. I can’t take the pain, and remove the bag. I am bleeding blue all over the vestibule. The bag hasn’t been on my head for even an hour. I put the bag back on. The girl in my image is sitting in the 6x6 room with a blindfold. There is a man behind her with a chainsaw. He is wearing a suit and tie. He has a name tag that reads “Hello, my name is Adam.” He runs the machine down on her shoulder, severing her arm. I panic, and take the bag off my head. My arm is on the other side of the room, and the man with the chainsaw is behind me. He switches the machine to “off” and pulls a letter out from the inside of his blazer, and reads it to me. I can’t understand what he is saying because his voice is censored. His mouth is moving but instead of speaking, different tones replace the fluctuation in his voice. In the middle of reading, he begins choking and falling to the ground slowly, his hand reaching into the back of his mouth as if something was lodged back there. He pulls a battery out and sets it on the counter. It’s a triple A battery, and it would just be a perfect replacement to the dead one in my sea salt heating lamp. He begins to choke up gears and computer chips, making just the biggest mess. I run to the bathroom and dampen a towel, and place it on his forehead as he’s kneeled over spitting up wires and screws. As he recovers and stands up, he starts crying tears of oil. I fetch a bucket and start collecting them so that I am able to water my garden in the morning. He then takes a seat and pulls out a briefcase from his back pocket, pulling out a new arm. There is a label above the elbow that reads “wash with like colors.” He motions me over, and glues it into my arm socket. It is fully functional, all except for the fact that I cannot hold my arm any higher than my head. He pulls out an electronic translator and shows it to me to read “will you please help me find a new battery?” Using the translator, I agree to help and in addition, invite him to a fireworks show happening inside of the nuclear power plant a few blocks away from my apartment. He agrees and I show him to my car, a 2004 Dodge Neon. My car only has a driver side; there is only one row of seats, and can only fit two people. The trunk is the size of a shoebox. In the trunk, I keep a gun loaded with my prescription sleeping pills. I shoot one into the back of my throat whenever I feel like dreaming.

We drive to the nearest drugstore, which is located in the middle of a sulfur field off the side of the highway. The entire left side is absent of a wall, and also functions as a drive-through window for those in a rush. The greeting card aisle is the first upon entry. I observe a middle aged man picking out an “I’m sorry” card. The man reaches his hand under his toupee, pulling out an ink pen to sign the card “To dearest Jeremy, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for who you are. Sincerely, Jeremy.” The battery section shares an aisle with the stained-glass section. Although it is beautiful, I am reluctant to buy the stained-glass piece that depicts two business men fighting over whether or not the next investment should be in rosemary or basil. Personally, I would pick rosemary, as the rosemary industry as of recently has been successful, as opposed to the basil industry. Every basil store that I have passed lately has been under foreclosure. I’m a gardener, so I must pay attention. The man with me with the nametag that reads “Adam” stares into the glass-stained piece with lust, and jumps into the picture. The subject matter changes to an image of Adam in my garden with the business men. The business men are offering him a share of stock in their enterprise. Now that Adam has transcended, I am left alone in the drugstore. I feel grief and heartbreak. “We could have been something, Adam! I never told you, but I was in love with you! I have never before been so attracted to a man’s voice. I wanted you to censor out everything that I didn’t want to hear! You used me, Adam!” I shout into the stained-glass. I pick it up and throw it to the ground in tears. The shatter catches the attention of the cashier, who is wearing a nametag that reads “Adam.” He drags me into the backroom, a 6x6 enclosure with no windows or door, where he straps me down into an electrical chair. His front two teeth are carved into the shape of the number “7,” and he has a tattoo on his neck that reads “we’re so sorry.” He takes a chainsaw out from the locker behind him. He revs up the machine, and runs it along his tongue. He begins to bleed out light from his tongue; it’s a blinding bright light that falls from his mouth and quickly floods the room. “This is what heaven looks like. And you, you look like an angel. Your time is up.” He presses a button on the wall and I am shocked by the electrical chair until I am pronounced dead. My vision is black, and there is nothing. I take the bag off my head.

I hold the bag in my hands in my living room, and turn on the television to Local News Channel 5. There is breaking news. Just wonderful! I’ve been so bored sitting alone with this bag on my head. The newscaster announces that the twenty hours of wearing the paper bag are up, and displays an image of my gravestone. Congratulations, he says. You’ve made it to heaven. I sigh heavily with relief and wait for my letter of discharge from life in the mail.

Three days later, I find an envelope in my mailbox. The return address cannot be displayed here for the all intended purpose of protecting the safety of the sender. I excitedly open it up and take out the contents; it’s a postcard with an image of my own apartment on the back. It reads: “We’re so sorry. We’re so sorry for who you are.” I pin the letter up on the north wall of my room. I notice my gun is missing. I fall into my bed and beg for a dream.

TL:DR teachers are people, too

I’m most likely gonna be very scarce on social media (as you may have noticed) for a while. I don’t know how long. I’ve just taken up my first position as a teacher, while also attempting to finish my magister’s essay in English and get my license to teach. Oh and we’re renovating the bedroom too!

Being a new teacher, with very little understanding of how the organisation works, both at administrative and practical levels, is very time-consuming and stressful. Term started less than 2 weeks ago and my stomach has pretty much crashed already. I have had a constant headache since last Monday. Last weekend I missed a wedding ceremony and this week I missed a meeting with my boss. All very alarming signs of stress syndrome in my case.

I’ve still gone to work every day, because as a teacher, one cannot really just call in sick and hand over your responsibilities to someone else. Only I know the lesson I’ve planned to give my students, after all, and I alone know their needs in my particular classroom. If I were to call in sick; I would still need to do a full hand-over of eveything I’ve meant to teach during the time I’ll be away, and seeing as I don’t always know that myself, what with the lack of planning-time, I cannot just be ill in peace but will have to work on lesson plans from home in order to give the substitute teacher a chance…

Sorry, I don’t mean to rant about my work, I’m sure none of you are really interested in all this, but I just… 

I knew it would be hard work. I’ve always known. And I welcome challenges like unmotivated students, or students who have special needs in regards to language barriers etc. I really do! I love to try and find different kinds of assignments and I relish in the chance to explain over and over with a hundred tiny variations so that a student can finally understand what is asked of them.

But I am now responsible for the education of nearly 70 teenagers, most of which are completely indifferent both in relation to myself and the subject I long to make them enjoy. More than ten of them are not only indifferent but quite obviously unimpressed with me and my efforts to the point of being really fucking annoying. One or two have already mastered the ability to get a rise out of me. 

I really need to get more resilient, losing my temper is not gonna make any of them respect me more. And I feel incredibly sorry for the students who have to hear me shout at their classmates and disrupt their focus all the time. But… Honestly, it is a bit of a shock. I’ve always understood the lack of motivation during these years in school, hell I was a really bad student myself, and I know other things get in the way as well… But. I have never talked to an adult the way some of these kids talk to me. 

I don’t know where I am going with this. I suppose… I wanna ask any and all of you who are still in school to please, please be kind to your teachers. We work so incredibly hard, and it fucking hurts when all that energy is just waved off as though we are some annoying fly getting in the way of what the students find more important. It would be very nice to be able to see that the people I teach care as much about their education as I do.