250...

Not that it's a real milestone, but if you count my old blog (and I do, since I only changed addresses because the shitstuffers in my AP class were making nasty comments that I had to edit out...) but today marks my 250'th post.

I'm sure there's a grammar nazi out there who will point out that this means my 1000th typo...nothin' but love for ya, whoever you are.

(Not you wonderful people who comment and whom I love...*insert Peter Lorre creepiness here* You're my friends...)

And now, if that weirdo, sleep-deprived introduction didn't scare everybody off, I have a fun story that will.

So, today, this one kid that my fellow administrators and I have labeled a complete-fucking-psychopath runs into my classroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief. You see, I've pinched this nerve in my shoulder, right? And this kid smells so much like pot, that for one blissful moment of contact-high, I'm not in screaming pain. But of course, this has a downside, because I need to alert administration--which I do, via e-mail. And security comes and gets him. End of story? Nope--this is where Point of View becomes REALLY important, boys and girls, because from the point of view of the administrators, this is where things get interesting.

Apparently this kid had a total drug-induced meltdown that started with him trying to attack our (young, blond, female) administrator through our other (older, balder, wiser, ex-policeman) administrator in order to get his phone back because he didn't want us to alert his dealer. I mean mother--at least 'mother' was the person the administration was trying to get a hold of anyway, but we suspect that nobody loses their nut with that much force unless lawyers, drugs, or moneys are involved. It ended with three large men sitting on him in a three point restraint and the choice between Juvenile hall and Juvenile Hall--where, if he lived in Oregon, he might be graced with Roxie's presence, but he's not that lucky and she is much luckier, so hopefully he gets Brunhilda-the-many-warted-bitch-goddess-whip-wielder to proctor his G.E.D. If he can still spell it after the brain-cell holocaust that he apparently perpetrated today.

Sheesh, people... and of course, once he left, my shoulder started to hurt again. But then, that was all about me, wasn't it?

Anyway...I'm going home. I went on a roll after my last post and wrote ten pages that felt (to me at least, at the moment) lyrical. They'll probably smell like rat droppings in two weeks when I'm revising them, but I don't think so. I've got about five or six pages to go, and then I scream and do the monkey in the kitchen at two a.m., and then I start from the beginning and comb down.

Of course, I need to share a bowl of ice cream with the liepchin first...and that's the best part. (AFter the Motrin, that is. Stomach problems be damned, I need some pain relief and I need it NOW!!!)