Feb. 6th, 2006

I got a paper back from my history teacher. He's a better writing teacher than my English teacher. He didn't even let me get away with my usual brilliant-sounding-bullshit techniques. I effing love that.

My ASL teacher made me feel very special. We were picking teams for the semster. I am not at all competitive, and people who are competitive about one or two extra credit points make me want to gouge out my eyeballs with knitting needles. There were quite a few of those in my beginning ASL class, and a good 3/4 of them continued to intermediate, so I wasn't particular about which team I ended up on as long at it wasn't theirs. I was kinda picked up by a team and then abandoned, and then my teacher started to auction me off. She said I was a Queen of ASL and "really good." So I am now a member of a team of Inept Kangaroos. (We had to pick a team name that we could sign.) I am either really good at ASL, or way way worse than I thought, because everyone in my team looked at me blankly when I signed. Sometimes they'd ask me to slow down or fingerspell instead, and when I did they understood, so my hopes are high that I am actually good at it. Maybe I'll be there when a deaf client comes into the tax service, and I can find out.

Bellydancing class is friggin HUGE this time around. There were 60 students in beginning, and 25 in intermediate. In one tiny dance room (60 on Tuesday and 25 on Thursday). We had to form lines. Crazy.

Everytime you write a boring-as-shit English paper that's being dumbed down to pre-6th grade level instead of playing on [livejournal.com profile] leaving_fame or writing porn, cynicism kills a baby anarchist.

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scarylullabiez

January 2012

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