Honestly if I were to try and blog that subject in its entirety? This would be part one of 70 squidzillion parts. Part two would probably need to cover MATH, seeing as squidzillion is not even an actual number.
Actually all the ways and times I failed at math would be parts 2 through 17.
RANDOM MATH FAIL EXAMPLE: I failed algebra in high school, partly because I am BAD at math, partly because I have very poor hearing from the squidzillion ear infections I had as a baby, and largely partly because my 9th grade algebra teacher spoke as if she had just crammed her cheeks full of unchewed, bulky nuts.
Her lectures were a spew of dampered honking with a lot of spitting and swallowed vowels and flute-y nose-peeps escaping her nostrils in mid-word.
DIGRESSION: She also had the most impressive bosom I have ever seen on a human being. Not just large – there are many large bosoms about. This bosom was MIGHTY, jutting out like the prow of a ship. No, the prows of two ships.
It did not bounce. It did not so much as tremble. It was two massive, unstoppable cones of power sailing majestically ahead of her, clearing a path though whatever was in her way, be that the air, or crowds, or mountains, or the high grass of helpless meadows.
That bosom was unmoving and unmovable. Whatever machine or fortress she used to tame and shape the bosom was constructed out of ALL the whale bones, ever, and bolstered by flying buttresses and magic Dwarven steel. She could have safely gone leaping onto a trampoline and her bosom would not have heaved even a LITTLE. Later I would steal her bosom and and stick it onto the chest of Bernese Frett in my second novel, BETWEEN, GEORGIA.
At any rate, this teacher liked to use COINS in her examples, and her explanations of the main ideas would sound to my not-great ears like, “WONK WONK WONKA WOO nickels WONK WONK dimes WOnnnNK the Nickels WONNNNNK wonk WONK.”
After a few days of staring at the rainbows caught in the misty edges of her constant spit-spray and not understanding the words, I began to use my algebra class time to perpetrate TRULY bad poetry.
Well, I was in ninth grade.
I was very into my own ANGUISH. I was not above rhyming pain with again multiple times in a stanza. My sorrow? I loved a boy named Randy Chitty who had a muscle car he REBUILT HIMSELF and a torn jacket and black curls and who kept DANGEROUS CIGARETTES rolled in the sleeve of his grease-stained white T Shirt. Randy Chitty, meanwhile, was an upperclassman with no idea I was a LIVING ORGANISM.
So I wrote truly dreadful poems about my agonizing, unrequited love, torturing his black curls and his muscle car into a metaphor about … I want to say ancient Rome? Something about wind rifling his curls as he rode his iron chariot?
The whole iambic pentametered abomination was just thinly veiled images of Randy Chitty in a gladiator outfit, juxtaposed against my real PAIN at being ignored AGAIN here in the real world as he looked through me with his something something noble warrior’s eyes and PS NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME.
Digression: At 14, it is safe to say I also failed, righteously, at writing POETRY.
Anyway. I was so involved that I didn’t notice the word NICKEL had been replaced in the wonk-wonking of my teacher’s lecture by another word I should have recognized.
WONK WONK Wonk, Joshilyn?… WONK Wonk, Joshilyn? …Joshilyn? …JOSHILYN?
Next thing I knew, she was looming over me. I stared up between the massive peaks of the bosom. It framed her tiny, pinched and angry face, glowering down upon me. She wonked at me, and it was clear from context that she wanted to know WHAT I WAS DOING that was obviously not algebra. I quaked in the twin shadows of her power source, and she reached around it and PLUCKED MY NOTEBOOK OUT OF MY SLACK AND HORRIFIED HANDS. She turned and went to the front of the classroom with it.
Then…she read my poem to the class. My poem about my desperate need to do some big-time making out with Randy Chitty.
Honestly, it would have been the worst moment in my young life, life-alteringly bad, defining the rest of my high school years…if ANYONE IN CLASS HAD UNDERSTOOD IT.
To me, it was obviously a poem declaring my hopeless devotion to all things RANDY….but to the class? It was just a bad poem about chariot induced agony in Rome. Between my teacher’s missing vowels and abused consonants and my mauling of the written word via convoluted imagery, my secret love passed by, unobserved.
YET ANOTHER DIGRESSION: I should have realized then that no one would ever read anything I wrote exactly. No two people ever read the same book. Also, I have now digressed so far I have failed at writing my intended part 1. *beam*
QUESTION: I delinked the archives of the first 6 years or so of FTK because all the formatting got wrecked—the software evolved or something. What if I instituted a running feature where every
Friday I went back and edited and fixed an entry I LIKED from the old blog, so I restored the good parts, and they were saved and available here?
If I do it, what should I call that category? Flashback Friday? Alison wants me to call it Fro’ Back Friday. Frowback? Fro’back? Yes? No?