boys? you mean sex toys that are rude and don’t even vibrate? no thank u
have u ever accidentally befriended someone who is very very irritating
I thought you said beheaded
that would not be an accident
If I’m extra sarcastic with you it probably means I’m flirting with you or you really annoy me and I can’t handle your shit
Have fun figuring out which
OHHHH MY GODDDD I THOUGHT SHE WAS GONNA DO BLACK FACE BUT IT TURNED OUT SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EXPECTED
i fucking hate how i get attached so easily like i don’t understand. i meet someone new, find interest and BAM it’s like i can’t stop thinking about it. this needs to fucking stop
step 1: put on some relaxing music
step 2: sketch out some ideas on a blank sheet of paper
step 3: grab a jar of human blood
step 4: summon satan and get him to write your college essay
“I will never understand it, I’ll never get it”. Tristan started crying out of frustration, throwing his pencil down with all hope lost. He used the worksheet as tissue, soaking it with his tears. I pick up the pencil and ask him to try one last time. “But what’s the point?” he asked. That’s when I knew, I knew that I couldn’t let him leave this room without writing a sentence that made him proud.
“Do you like Legos?” I asked with hope. “Well…yeah.” Tristan said confused but fascinated. “Well that’s what writing a sentence is like, you have to take each small piece and make it into something great. Each word is a Lego and the creation is your final sentence.” Eyes wide, he looked at the paper, ready. “What needs to be in it again?” “Two verbs, two nouns, and the word “and””
He grabbed his pencil…a smile stretched across his face. Wiping his big blue eyes he was finally ready. “Sat….jumped….ran…RAN!!” Although he was excited, he wrote slowly making sure each letter was perfectly on the dotted line. I left him for just a moment to check on the other kids. Out of the corner of my eye a hand shot up and an ecstatic bouncy 8 year called my name at least 12 times. I rushed over to Tristan, took the paper and smiled. “I ran home and ate with my Mom” I read.
“Don’t forget a period…” I laughed as I put a purple check mark on the top of his paper. Tristan chuckled and thanked me for helping him.
Ever since I was in 4th grade I wanted to be a teacher, begging my parents to buy me whiteboards and worksheets to play imaginary school in my room. Back then, I was the kid needing countless hours of help on her work. I gave up trying and got horrible grades because of it. Each time I threw my pencil in anger my teacher would make me get it and try again. Each tutoring session had a worksheet and a box of tissues. By the end of 4th grade I was finally caught up to all the other students, because my teacher never gave up on me the way I did. Each day in college I will wake up, learn about children, understand the curriculum, and aspire to be a teacher. College, grad school, X thousands of dollars, and unbelievable stress and anxiety. After all of that is done, it is only truly about helping one little boy write a sentence.
I am almost always happy, although being completely content is hard for me to find. Hearing “Hello Ms. Taylor” from 24 innocent voices is music to my ears. Walking into that classroom twice a week to volunteer is a feeling most kids my age probably don’t get. The feeling of helping someone, getting them through it, and never letting them give up is a feeling I wish I could explain. There aren’t many ways to describe how I felt those days in that classroom but I can truly say that I was content.