Now that I’ve been out of high school a sufficient amount of time to consider myself an adult (this term is highly debatable among anyone who has witnessed the drunken version of me, of course), I often think back fondly upon the things I learned in high school. Well, when I say often, I really mean only when all the planets and stars align, and Johnny Depp is fucking me from behind, but you catch my drift: though rare, it happens. You see, concepts like calculus derivatives and the functionality of the hypothalamus were not the things that stuck in my mind. Perhaps if they had, I would be along the path to pursuing a career in rocket science or something productive rather than along the path headed straight to pornography or prostitution (From what I’ve heard, the path typically goes Hooters, Tilted Kilt, strip club, Playboy, pornography, prostitution, so I’m well on my way). Anyway, as I pursue this equally admirable path I speak of, some of those intriguing things I learned in high school come back to me in interesting ways.
For example, I recently fucked this guy, and guess what? We had sex in Spanish!!! Had I never taken Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and aced my exam, I never would have felt comfortable screaming "Si" (Yes) as I came. I wouldn’t have initiated things by saying, "Lo quiero"(I want it) and grabbing his cock and moaning "Eso" (That) when he asked "Qué te quieres?" (What do you want?) Call me sentimental, but I just felt a glowing sense of pride for my high school Spanish teachers as I said "Lo me encanta" (I love it!) while riding his dick. I was so impressed that I busted my ass para cuatro anos en la clase de español (for four years in Spanish class) so that some Hispanic guy could bust a nut and yell words I could actually comprehend while he did it. If it weren’t for my fully capable Señoras, that just wouldn’t have been a possibility, and missing out on that diverse moment would have been earth-shatteringly disappointing. Without my teachers, I would not have been able to sit back afterward and discuss with him the magnitude of what had just happened (him fucking his first blonde and me fucking my first Hispanic guy sober….aww what a special moment). Had it not been for my Spanish teachers, I would have simply mumbled an awkward "Adios" and sent that muchacho on his merry way, wishing him a Feliz Navidad and maybe offering him a Corona for the road. Gracias, mis profesores de español (Thanks, my Spanish teachers).
Another hugely important thing I gained from high school mathematics was the full comprehension of the movie Mean Girls. Now call me cliché, but I fucking love the movie Mean Girls. Not only do I love that my twin Amanda Seyfried is in it and that she shares both my name and my love for predicting the weather with my tits, but I also love that she and her friends are bitches just like myself. Being a bitch is so enjoyable, and I really do not give two fucks if anyone disagrees. Now, if it weren’t for Advanced Placement Calculus, I would never have been able to fully grasp the beauty of the film. The line, "The limit does not exist" would have gone right over my blonde, Amanda Seyfried-looking head. Instead, every time that line comes on, I chuckle with the force of Kendra, that Playboy slut turned reality TV star with the overly obnoxious laugh, just to show everyone that I am in on the secret of what this little math line means, that I am of the educated populus. Of course, if you asked me to explain it to you, I would merely smile and say, "You know I know what it means." The reality, however, is that I’ve killed far too many brain cells since high school to remember a motherfucking thing about what limits are. All I know is that my own personal limits prevent me from going back to school and ever taking another Calculus course.
From Environmental Science, I gathered the eternally useful tidbit of information that I fucking hate nature. I tend to avoid the not-so-great outdoors at all costs. Even at a bonfire, I am the one being stalked by the smoke the entire time so that I’m forced to play musical chairs and look like a complete buffoon. The outdoors loathe me, and the feeling is mutual. Sure, it’s super sad and all that the globe is gradually dying, but when I see news reports about global warming and whatnot, I like to merely pretend that I am tuned in to the Lifetime Movie Network and am witnessing a D-List actress have a meltdown about her lost love. This image I produce in my head is actually quite comparable to Al Gore’s little environmental movie. I forget what it’s called…Whiny Rant From A Pathetic Washed-Up Politician or something along those lines, I believe. It is incredible how that man’s voice can simultaneously lure one into a sleepy stupor and an enraged fury. If I eventually murder Al Gore in my sleep, I’ll simply blame it on the Ambien combined with watching with his gut-wrenchingly dull documentary (Apparently he invented PowerPoint along with the Internet). Shit, if he’s so convinced the world is ending, I’d be more than happy to make it end for him. It didn’t even take a year for me to realize all this, so AP Environmental Science was clearly a highly effective course.
As for English classes, I learned that it’s okay to be too lazy to finish your essays properly. By the time you reach the conclusion, your choices are either to kill yourself because writing one more paragraph would just be too painful or to simply half ass some rephrasing of the rest of the paper. So uh yeah, basically, I’m fucking sick of the under appreciation of teachers.
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