I fucking laughed my yellow asian ass off when I saw that. Oh Cotton Factory, why do I still not own one of your tons of brilliant t-shirts?
My elementary school music teacher was quite a bitch. Didn't seem like it to most of you brainwashed fuckers who went to Birchwood Elementary School around my time, but she was. Well at least to me. For the untrained eye, she, Mrs. Sloand, looked like the cutest and sweetest little old lady ever to walk the face of the earth. Short white hair, flowery short-sleeved button-up-from-the-stomach dresses, slightly heeled shoes and pearl earrings. She sort of looked like Queen Elizabeth but without as many wrinkles on her face. Everybody loved her and loved how nice she was. I tried to be conformist, as I was only a young child, but I could never get back the adoration that I so desperately wanted from her.
She hated me, and to this day I have no fucking idea why. It could've been because I was the seemingly dumb asian kid who couldn't speak english that well. Let's face it, if you don't know the dominant language of your surroundings, you don't know shit what's going on, therefore coming off as a shithead. That's how I was for half of my time in elementary school - my parents being immigrants and all, and they themselves barely knowing enough english, let alone teach me. All I had was the television.
But anyway, I knew enough english to follow directions to the exact pinpoint of what someone would be telling me, and without the hardheadedness of a teenager that you know today. I followed every rule of hers, never talked or chit-chatted to any of my classmates out of cue, and participated to the fucking core in every single one of her activities. I conformed my fucking little ass off to that class, and still the teacher never was friendly to me. As a matter of fact, one day when I was tired and had something on my mind from the night before, when I probably got in trouble by my mom or something (because at least we spoke the same language, I couldn't really shit her), I was sitting with my legs spread out and my hands on the floor, in a more comfortable position rather than the stupid typical "pretzel style." Mrs. Sloand looks at me, infuriated, and says, "Christina, sit correctly!"
What the fuck? I wasn't even talking, I was looking at her, waiting for class to start, and all the other fucking kids in the class were bustling around and lollygagging, looking for their goddamn floor spots to sit down in. It really hurt my feelings, man. Right now I would've thought, "Shut the fuck up, cracker." But back then, I remember thinking right after she said that, "Why? What did I do wrong?"
Every rare time when I started to lag in an activity, or pay my attention to elsewhere, or stumbled with notes, she would only snap at me. But not when someone else was lagging. She didn't even bother with them. Go take your fucking cheap maracas and tambourines and shove them up your crusty ass. I really would've liked to talk to a friend about it, but no one would've believed me, since she was "the sweetest lady in the world."
I'm glad the bitch retired and a new, younger teacher came in. She also happened to respect me.
So the moral of today's story is: Always believe in Jon Lovitz.
Christina N. @ 7:52 PM
