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Sure, female dramatics cause grand mal seizures and chronic fevers. Makes perfect sense…
It’s debilitating to live inside a body that doesn’t behave normally, to never know when it’s going to fail completely.
I found out quite quickly that what is acceptable in my household—such as throwing knives at my brothers to test their reflexes after I’d laced the brownies I’d made them with laxatives—isn’t exactly normal outside of our doors.
They had a cake. And balloons. And a banner. And the baker honest-to-God bawled his eyes out at the prospect of losing his best customer. My dad has a problem.
When a teacher called my mother and told her that she’d had quite enough of me disrupting her class with my “dramatics,” my mother promptly pulled me from school.
Am I annoyed? Most definitely. Do I think it’s hilarious as fuck? Yup. Will I keep the present because I’m a sap like that? Yes, yes I will.
“One, don’t start a fight, but if you have to fight, make sure you finish it. Two, if you have to fight, make sure they bleed. Three, if you really have to kill someone, do it in private so it’s easier to hide the body.”
The pay’s shit, the students are shit, and half the time, the lesson plans are shit.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Because you are cute…like a bunny. Because bunnies are cute. I eat bunnies. I want to eat you. Wait! That sounds bad! I’m not a cannibal, promise. I just meant—”
