Take that, biatch!

Between Kindergarten and my bachelor degree, there have been a lot of teachers and professors who've made substantial positive contributions to my development as the person I am now. But I'm not here to write about them. I wanna talk about that bitch they let loose on me in 4th grade.

Her name is Mrs. Prelesnick (prellz-nik) and I can only imagine she was smack in the throes of change o' life when I was assigned to her class. She was moody, sarcastic, and snippy with us - we were ten years old, fer chrissake.

Now, at the time, I was considered one of the Brainiacs in class (see my posts with the heading The Drunk Diaries for proof that this was not true once I got to college), so you'd think I would get a little teacher's-pet deferential treatment. Uh....no. She ragged on my ass just as bad as she did the other kids, maybe even worse sometimes. To be fair, I had already developed a fair amount of the attitude y'all see here every day, but still...I just think she didn't like me. Maybe she couldn't let go of the day I pointed out her misuse of the words "lose" and "loose" in front of the whole class, and then proceeded to get a dictionary and prove her wrong in front of everyone when she tried to shush me. Hmmm, yeah, that might've been it.

Up until the 4th grade, I had more or less been allowed to sit in the room during parent/teacher conferences. Yes, it's true, I was quite the little goody two-shoes until I discovered rock music, and that wouldn't be until the ruining age of 12. So why wouldn't Mrs. P let me sit in on her conference with my mom? I knew I was performing (academically) well ahead of most of the other kids in class. Oh, well, it wasn't that big a deal and I hung out in the hallway until Mom came out.

My mom was actually stifling a laugh as she came out, and even then I knew enough to wait until we were outside to ask.

"What's so funny? What'd she say?" I wanted to know.

She laughed and replied, "She said she found out that we had allowed you to read The Exorcist last year, and she was very concerned."

"What?"

"She said if we allowed that sort of thing, you'd grow up to be on drugs."

Mrs. P's leap of logic brought mother and daughter together for a hearty laugh at the old dried-up cunt's expense.

Now I've grown up (debatable) to be something much, much worse than the drug addict she foresaw: I am a blogger! A vulgar motherfuckin' blogger who's not afraid to tackle jizz and buffalo piss head-on. A $2 whore to the Internet as a Whole.

I wonder if it would make Mrs. P's head explode if I told her I saw her baby daughter smokin' a big ol' doob at a party about seven years later?