Thursday, February 12, 2009

Lost in Space

I don't like being sick. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. Like the real sore throat/achy/sleepy type where you'd just like to take six thousand miligrams of ibuprofen and stay in bed reading the paper or playing Zelda. So I sleep in a bit but know I gotta get to work (and soon). I snag my hostess donuts (THE cure for evrything that ails ya) and my diet pepsi, and drive.
Cockapoo! the agent is in my room setting up this time for the seniors to take this huge test so my 8th graders and me head off to the wonderfully all-catching Media Center (we used to call them libraries back in the day) to do nothing. I log into my blog and tell the little darlings it's 'reading day' and tell them to read anything they want. I follow this plan second hour and then again third hour. The agents are out of my room but i'm having fun writing this so i tell 4th hour to come into the Media Center also. They're a little more high-maintenance but most are working. At this point i don't care. I didn't even care that i didn't capitalize the first person singular personal pronoun several times thus far...
So it's almost lunch and every question i'm asked is a stupid question and every kid asking is an idiot and i just want to lay down. I hate being sick. Looking back at the opening paragraph, i see that nothing really wonderful has come of this story. I just like the line, Dickens wrote it a while ago.

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