I often get into fights and arguments with people whom I don’t know. But these people are usually around the age of 12 and the arguments are usually about “who is better: Panic At The Disco or Led Zeppelin”.

So you’d think that getting into a huge argument with a 30-something middle school teacher over “who is at fault: me or you, dumbass” would be a nice change of pace.

But it’s not.

It all started a couple of months ago. I was walking along, minding my own business, when suddenly my phone started beeping. I looked at the screen - I had gotten a new email.

The email was from one of my teachers. It was asking me if I wanted to get involved in a project with some middle schoolers for extra credit. The project would be about natural disasters. I was a little “ehhh” about the topic, but the prospect of extra credit was too much. I wrote back “sure” and continued on my way.

For the next few weeks, I heard nothing about the project. The middle school teacher (let’s call him Mr. B) who was in charge of it was supposed to tell me when project meetings were, but I had heard nothing. I just assumed that it was taking a while to get going and forgot about the project altogether.

Then, a few days later, the teacher who recruited me for the project asked me if I had gone to the meeting that had just happened. I thought “say WHAT?” and asked “What meeting?”.

It then hit me: OH MY GOD There have been meetings going on and I knew nothing about them. Why? Because nobody had informed me about them.

I told this to the teacher and he said that he didn’t know either until a few minutes ago. So Mr. B had been keeping us both out of the loop, had he? Very interesting.

I was informed about the next meeting, so I went to it. I had apparently missed 4 weeks’ worth of work and was, to quote Mr. B, “falling behind”. I wanted to kick him, but opted instead to draw something obscene on a piece of paper and tape it to his back.

After that meeting, I was kept in the dark for about 4 weeks. Then I was finally told about a meeting, which I attended. I was told by Mr. B that I had “missed the past 4 meetings” and that I was “falling severely behind”.

I was in a state of disbelief. I was tempted to say something snarky, like “Well, excuse me, Pompous McBastard-Face, but it’s not my fault I’m falling behind. It’s your fault for being too much of a thickhead to tell me when to show up,” but alas I was in no position to do so. So I said “Whatever” and carried on.

When the meeting was over, I went outside and kicked over a trash can.

A week later, I awoke at 10 AM, my usual wake-up time for Fridays. My phone was beeping off the hook. I had missed a phone call. I checked it out - the phone number was unfamiliar to me. But the caller had left me a voicemail, so I listened.

To my absolute horror, it was Mr. B.

“Hello, Katie? This is Mr. B. I was wondering if you were going to actually come to the meeting today. It’s at the middle school, second floor, at 8 AM. If you’re not going to come, call me back. Know that you are falling severely behind and are on track to not earn credit for doing this. If you miss any more meetings then I don’t know what to tell you.”

At this point, I was thinking several things.

1. What the fuck is he doing, calling me that early? A meeting at 8 AM? Message left at 5 AM? I am not going to get that thing in time.

2. How come the one time he remembers to tell me when the meeting is, he does it ON THE DAY OF THE MEETING? I like to be prepared.

3. Even if I wanted to go to the meeting, how does he expect me to get there? He knows my family only has one car - I told him this. Obviously my family needs that car for work on a Friday morning, so… what does he want me to do?

4. I already know that I’m falling behind. It’s the only thing he’s ever said to me, the dipshit.

5. How the fuck did he get my cell phone number?

Just as I finished collecting my thoughts, the phone rang again. I looked at the number. It was him.

Me: “What do you want?”
Mr. B.: “Katie?”
Me: “Who else would it be?”
Mr. B.: “This is Mr. B.”
Me: “Does not compute.”
Mr. B.: “Mr. B., from the middle school.”
Me: “Oh. I’d ask what’s up but I don’t care.”
Mr. B.: “Anyway, are you coming to the meeting?”
Me: “Are you insane or just drunk? The meeting’s halfway over already. By the way, thanks for calling me at 5 AM. I’m totally going to be awake at that hour.”
Mr. B.: “So you’re not coming?”
Me: “Not even if you promised me free coffee.”
Mr. B.: “Well, just know that you are missing a lot of work and I’m disappointed in you.”
Me: “Not my problem.”
Mr. B.: “Yes it is, you are neglecting to do your work.”
Me: “No, you’re neglecting to inform me about the work.”
(silence)
Me: “Oh, come on, you set yourself up for that one.”
Mr. B.: “Shape up, young lady.”
Me: “Shape up, old man.”
Mr. B.: “Don’t get snarky with me.”
Me: “Don’t get stupid with me.”
Mr. B.: “Be at the next meeting.”
Me: “Are you going to tell me when it is now, or are you going to wait until 5 minutes before it starts?”
Mr. B.: “Goodbye, Katie.”
Me: “Goodbye, sir. Watch out for the door; if it’s as closed as your mind is, you’ll walk right into it.”

Satisfied with my quick wit and deadpan delivery, I hung up the phone and continued making my cereal.

But my phone rang again a few moments later. I didn’t pick up once I saw who it was (guess who), but I got a voicemail.

“You are out of line and I could get you in trouble this fast, you know that? I’m tired of you being irresponsible and rude.”

I called him back. Before he could even speak, I went off.

“You can get me in trouble? I don’t think so. This conversation is not taking place at school or during school hours. It’s not regulated by the school. So what are you going to do? Sue me for standing up for myself? Take me to court for pointing out your obvious flaws? Try again, buddy. It’s not my fault you’re neglecting to inform me about these things, and it’s therefore not my fault that you’re so upset. I’m placing all the blame on you, where it belongs. Don’t call me anymore unless it’s to say that I’m right, because I don’t want to have to stick my head any more up my ass in order to see your point of view.”

This morning (one day later), he called me again. I didn’t want to talk to him, but I knew that he would just keep calling, so I put on one of my fake accents and tried to confuse him.

Me: “Hello, dis Bob’s House of Chinese Chicken, for all you Chinese fast food needs. How I help?”
Mr. B.: “Hello, is Katie there?”
Me: “Hello? Bob’s House of Chinese Chicken. I can take you order?”
Mr. B.: “What? I’m trying to reach Katie.”
Me: “You want Chicken Char Siu? Chicken Char Siu only $24.99.”
Mr. B.: “No, I need to reach Katie! Do you know her?”
Me: “I know what you want. You want best deal on Chinese chicken in town. You come to right place!”
Mr. B.: “Sir, please put Katie on if she is there.”
Me: “You want make reservation? 24 hour in advance.”
Mr. B.: “IS KATIE THERE?”
Me (choking back laughter): “Today special is Charbroiled Chicken Ass, delicious ass of chicken only $32.89!”
Mr. B.: “SIR!”
Me: (uncontrollable laughter)
Mr. B.: “Fuck you.”

Wow. I know I was being immature, but really now. A middle school teacher swearing at a high school student on a weekend over the phone. Uncalled for.

And so the drama shall undoubtedly continue as the weeks go on. I predict a victory by me. After all, smart always triumphs over stupid.

I consider myself a feminist. If a woman doesn’t believe in equal rights for males and females, she is stupid. However, when I express my dislike for women in general, I am called “anti-feminism”. I am not anti-feminism. I simply have a dislike for women and the way they are defended so.

Here’s an example. If the title of this post were to be “Men Need To Be Quiet”, I would have a bunch of women commenting on it saying, “You go girl! Men are assholes!”. But with the title remaining as it is, I will likely get both women and men telling me that I am a pathetic excuse for a female.

Guess what? I can want equal rights for women while still having a dislike for women in general. Many (most, even) women are superficial, whiny, and overemotional. And don’t you go whining to me about me enforcing such a stereotype, because every female possesses stereotypical female qualities, whether it be an obsession with appearance or an inability to keep quiet. Same with men. How’s that for feminism? Men and women are equal in that every member of either sex possesses some stereotypical qualities.

I would rather spend time with a man than a woman. More often than not, a female will be unable to shut her trap and will be far too emotional. A man will often be rude, but I’d rather put up with fart jokes than whining about breakups and wardrobe malfunctions.

Even I have stereotypical female qualities. I am long-winded, I dwell too much on emotional haps, and I talk more often than I should. I’m not above all other women, but I try not to be intolerant of others’ opinions regarding gender.

So women, before you go bashing me for putting down the female gender, think about this. Women say things like “Men are the scum of the earth” all the time, and it’s fine. But if a male says “Women are the scum of the earth”, he’s in trouble. Women, why the sexism? All you feminists out there, if you’re pushing for equal rights for men and women, you can’t freak out about men voicing their opinions about women when you say the exact same things about them. That’s what equality is about.

Women are not above men. Nor are men above women. That’s what feminism is about. Should I dislike other women, I should not be put down for it. I’m not saying “Women are stupid, evil beings who should have no rights”. I’m saying “Women often have qualities I don’t like, and that’s why I don’t like hanging out with them”. It’s not anti-feminism or even anti-women. It’s personal preference.

Earlier today I was looking through some random magazines at the grocery store. I decided to look at some teeny ones for laughs.

I laughed at many of the articles, not because they were funny, but because they were completely and utterly ridiculous. Here are some of the more memorable pieces of crap.

What His Clothes Say About Him!

Ooh, if he wears white sneakers, he must not be brave enough to express himself. NOT! It just shows that he likes the color white, maybe? Or perhaps it shows that he doesn’t care for giant rainbow striped ones. Maybe he just wanted simple shoes. His shoes don’t say jack about his personality beyond maybe what his favorite color is.

These kinds of “decoding guys” articles are pointless. No guy (and hopefully no girl, either) tries on a shirt and thinks, “Ooh, I’m going to buy this because it will show that I am very talkative” unless the shirt actually says “I am very talkative”.

Most Embarrassing Moments!

“OH MY GOD One day I wore this hot skirt that was like 4 inches long to school and I tripped and the hot football guy I liked could see my embarrassing underwear!!”

That’s not interesting, and neither are the 20 other similar ones displayed alongside it. Everybody has embarrassing moments that they want to forget, so why are they being published in a magazine for the world to see?

Your Monthly Horoscopes!

Now, is it just me, or is it a little weird that I seem to get a wonderful new boyfriend in July, get the attention of a cute guy in August, get a new “everlasting love” in September, and then in October rebound from my last horrible relationship with a “hot new hookup”? The stars in the sky don’t change positions every year, but that’s exactly what my future seems to be doing. Consistency please, almighty astrologists!

How To Flirt!

Smile, but not too big. Look up at him, but don’t look away until he does. Joke with him, but don’t make too much fun of him.

NO, DUH! All of the stuff in these sorts of articles is common sense. You don’t give the guy a death stare, and you don’t smile like Krusty the Klown. If somebody can’t figure these things out on their own, maybe they shouldn’t be trying to pick up guys.

So basically what I’m saying is these teeny magazines are full of junk. Even I, a member of their target audience, can see this.

The other day I was in line at the grocery store and I saw a girl with an interesting t-shirt.

It wasn’t the good kind of interesting, either. The good kind of interesting t-shirt would be a quirky homemade Star Wars one, or a quirky homemade political one. No, this t-shirt was the bad kind of interesting - the “what-on-earth-were-they-thinking” kind.

The t-shirt would’ve looked innocent to somebody with minimal computer experience. It read, “I wish I could CTRL+ALT+DELETE you”. I reckon it garnered a few laughs from the girl’s giggly middle school friends, but it made me wonder if the makers of the shirt understood what CTRL+ALT+DELETE meant.

See, CTRL+ALT+DELETE does not equal DELETE. CTRL+ALT+DELETE equals “Open Windows Task Manager”. So, do “I wish I could CTRL+ALT+DELETE you”? No. I doubt that would do much. I’d just be able to see all of your processes (none of which I want to see) and be able to shut them down if they are not responding. I could see who you are networking with (phone call from boyfriend? Mother? Pimp? I’ll know). I could see your CPU usage (it’s probably pretty low). I could see your memory specs, but what’s the point if I already know that you’re running very low on RAM?

Point is, if you’re going to wear techy t-shirts, you should know what they mean. This girl obviously does not know much about computers, save for “you can go to Myspace on them”.

Last Saturday I went for my daily bike ride. Every day I ride a half a mile on my bicycle. Normally it doesn’t tire me too much, but on Saturday I started later than usual, so I was thrown off. Quite literally thrown off.

I had pulled over onto some gravel to let a car pass by, and when I tried to shift gears, the wheels got stuck in the gravel. I was thrown off my bike, and the bike fell over onto my legs. I sat there on the gravel for a few seconds before collapsing.

When I regained consciousness, I tried to stand up. But I couldn’t. My left foot and ankle couldn’t move. I could barely feel them, but what I could feel was nothing less than agony. I started to panic. My ankle couldn’t be broken. No. That couldn’t happen.

I sat there for a few more minutes, looking at my foot. The outer side of it had swollen to the size of a tennis ball, and the entire thing was blue. I couldn’t move my toes, and I was half a mile from home with no phone and barely any money. In short, I was screwed.

I couldn’t stand and I couldn’t call anybody to have them pick me up. After an hour or so, a car stopped and the driver offered me a ride. I took it, not caring about the “don’t trust strangers” rule. When I arrived back home, I crawled up the stairs and through the front door.

My parents just looked at me. I knew that I wasn’t going to get any cooperation out of them, so I was on my own. I tried to stand. I found that I could hop, but I couldn’t put any pressure on my left foot. I hopped to the bathroom to get an ice pack and a stretchy wrap, and then went to bed.

I stayed in bed for the rest of the weekend. By Tuesday I could walk somewhat, so I went to school with one tennis shoe-d foot and one stretchy-wrapped foot.

Now it is Thursday. I’ve been made fun of numerous times, and I still don’t know exactly what is wrong with my foot. It sucks.

Also, my hostess Renee got a new domain, so I’m there now. See? Hopefully everybody can find me again. I’m not sure how to go about telling everybody.

It has been raining almost non-stop for the past 2 weeks.

And, frankly, I think it’s affecting my brain.

Normally I’m energetic and willing to do stuff. But ever since this rain started, I’ve tired easily. I haven’t wanted to do anything. I’ve fallen behind on schoolwork and I’ve slept for 14 hours a day. I’ve missed 4 days of school. and only 2 of those days were missed because of the weather. I’ve barely had the energy to get out of bed.

All I know is, if I miss any more school I’ll be in trouble. But I’m so behind on school that I’m already in trouble.

Is there a cure for weather-induced depression?

Now, I am a model student. All of my teachers love me, and I get excellent grades. I enjoy most of my classes. Yet last semester, I would’ve been lying if I had said these things. The following is a tale of how an entire semester was ruined, all because of one lady.

We shall call this lady Mrs. D. It’s not because I’m afraid of her - after all, I’m going to spend a majority of this post pointing out her flaws - but more to protect her privacy. Even she has rights.

Now, Mrs. D. taught a poetry class that I was enrolled in. The course description stated that in the class, we would be reading, interpreting, and writing poetry. It was the writing aspect that appealed to me - I hate literary analysis and I always will. The class started off well enough - the lady seemed nice and the curriculum seemed promising enough. But things quickly turned around.

Two months into the class, and we hadn’t written a single poem, even though the course description said that we would be doing so. I had to write a mid-semester class reflection at this point. I chose to use the reflection to address this lack of living up to the course description. I wrote that I was disappointed about the lack of poetry writing, and also that I did not like literary analysis. I emailed this to the teacher, and received this back:

“Katie, perhaps you should have read the course description before joining this class.”

It was a definite “fuck you” moment for both me and the teacher. How dare she think me so stupid as to not read a fucking course description before joining a class? And how dare she completely ignore the fact that I WAS RIGHT. The course description was:

“Students will learn to read and interpret poetry from a variety of historical periods suing critical literary analysis techniques. Students will be expected to keep a daily response log, write weekly analysis papers, and to maintain a portfolio. Students are also expected to perform oral interpretation of poetry, teach classes on individual poems and literary techniques, and to write and present for class evaluation original poetry. The Semester course will finish with a self-selected project.”

The drama begins here. This was the beginning of a hate war. I hated her, she thought me an idiot for being correct. I’m not the kind of person to let things be if I don’t like them. I wrote this poem for her:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I know that you hate me
So, fuck you, too

I never gave it to her, but I have it stored away in an email draft should I need it.

Moving on. I began to wonder if Mrs. D. was jealous of me. Jealous because I was observant, a good writer, and, oh, correct on most things. After the email exchanges, she wouldn’t look me in the eye or talk to me. She was scared of me. I knew that people have trouble taking my comments, but this was a first. I was a scary person. It was strange.

The following week, we had a poetry test. It wasn’t even hard - define meter, define rhyme scheme, spell “poem”, that sort of thing. I aced it - I went so in-depth in my definitions that I scared myself. But I got the test back. 5 of the 20 points knocked off - with no explanation as to why. I understood. She couldn’t say she hated me to my face, so she entered a new low of giving me bad grades for no reason.

Our next test was just as simple: analyze the poem “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. I hate Robert Frost almost as much as I hate literary analysis. This test should’ve been hell, but I trudged on. I was supposed to write what I thought the poem was about. I felt that it was about the dude being unable to choose between two women. It very well could’ve been - the poem could mean anything if you think about it. I did a college-level analysis of that thing, and what do I get?

A B. 80%. Why? The only comment about my analysis was that Mrs. D. disagreed with my opinion - she felt it was about the decision to become a poet, not choosing a girl. So I got knocked down a whole letter grade because some teacher disagrees with my opinion? I could’ve taken that to the school board, but I chose to let it be. For then.

At this point I hated Mrs. D. so much that I didn’t care what I wrote. For my end-of-semester reflections (no prompt given), I wrote about my dislike of the class and of literary analysis. I stated that I felt that both were a waste of time. I do not apologize for my opinions. I give them raw. I received my reflections back with some comments.

To sum them up, Mrs. D. felt that I had not met any course requirements, and she also felt that my comments about the class were uncalled for.

If you can’t take the heat, get the hell away from me. My opinions are so hot, they’re cold.

There was no prompt. I could write whatever I wanted. She had no right to put me down for doing what I was told to - whatever! I had met ALL course requirements - I had done all assignments with extreme proficiency.

I have not received my final grade for that class yet, although I have dropped it. If I get anything below an A, I will do something about it. I’ll have her fired. Giving me a low grade for no reason is not cool. I don’t care if people disagree with my opinions. I do care if they fail me for having ones that clash with theirs.

This lady has failed to comply with her course descriptions. She has put me down via email. She has given me low grades because she does not like my opinion. What kind of teacher does that?

To all those who say that teachers don’t hate their students: You haven’t met this lady.

I’m sick and tired of environmentalists blaming global warming on the United States as if we’re the only country in the world contributing to it.

People like to say, “Oh, Americans drive lots of SUVs and use lots of energy. They’re ripping holes in the ozone layer and they’re increasing temperatures around the world.” This is 100% BS.

Wake-up call, folks: Global warming is nothing new. There have only been, oh, I don’t know, 6 ice ages before this as a result of global warming. There was global warming long before humans built cities and skyscrapers and oil wells. It’s part of the Earth’s cycle. The temperatures get really hot, then the planet freezes over, then it gets back to normal. Repeat. Humans may be helping global warming along, but it’s not entirely our fault. Pretending like it’s completely the fault of humans is stupid.

Americans drive SUVs and use lots of energy. Does that mean that people in other countries don’t do those things? No. It’s not America’s fault that global warming is being accelerated. If you blame us, you also have to blame other countries. Saying, “America did it!” is ridiculous. America did lots of things, but so did you, rest of the world.

America may be home to big cities and oil wells. But doesn’t Europe have lots of big cities? Doesn’t Asia have lots of oil wells? People like to say that America ignores the rest of the world, but so are those who blame America for global warming. You don’t ever hear, “Asia is having a massive effect on global warming”.

I’m not saying that global warming is not present. It’s ALWAYS been present, ever since the Earth came to be. It makes the world really hot, and then it makes it really cold. Nothing causes it. Things can speed it up, but not cause it. Blaming America for global warming is like blaming Neanderthals from ages ago for the ice age. We have an effect on the world, but so does everything else. Look at the whole puzzle, and not just the big pieces.

I have extremely large feet.

When I was 10, I could wear a US women’s size 8 and a half. My classmates would make fun of me by stepping on my toes and then saying, “Sorry, but it was unavoidable”. I hated my feet. They were enormous.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding, “were enormous”? They still are. I’m 15 now and I can wear a US men’s size 12. I don’t have any gripes about the shoe selection - I prefer tennis shoes to strappy sandals, so my large feet mean nothing in terms of sacrificing style.

Unfortunately, I’m due in court in two weeks for a mock trial competition (I’m an attorney). That means no jeans, no men’s shirts, no Yankees hat, and no tennis shoes. I have to put my hair up, wear a pantsuit, and heels. Now, I never put my hair up, but I could probably live with doing so. I’ve never worn a pantsuit, but I could probably live with wearing one. But heels… yikes.

The facts are these: I have large feet, I have to wear men’s shoes, soon I will have to wear heels, and they don’t make men’s heels. Yesterday, when I went to Ross to buy my suit, I took a glance at the heels. They had a section for women’s sizes 10 and up. Yeah, 10 and up… sure. Half of the shoes in that aisle were baby shoes that somebody probably threw in there as a joke. Most of those remaining wouldn’t go with my suit. They had a few heels that fit my feet, but they cost more than I could afford.

In the end, I just got boots. I hate that word, boots. It reminds me of being 4 and wearing rubber rain booties around the kindergarten campus. But I guess that’s what they’re called, boots. So I’ll just say boots. The boots come halfway up my calves and have like a 3 inch heel. I have never worn heels voluntarily. I do not know how to walk in heels. Thank goodness I’ll be sitting down in court most of the time.

In an attempt to get used to walking in heels, I’ve started wearing them wherever I go. Today I got my heel stuck in a crack on the porch, I rolled across some gravel, and I sunk 2 inches into the grass. I suppose eventually I’ll get used to heels, but I will always prefer men’s tennis shoes.

QUESTION OF THE WEEK: What’s your shoe size? What style of shoe do you like wearing the most?

I think that people say “I’m sorry” way too much these days.

Take, for example, when they give their opinion. “I’m sorry, but…” BUT NOTHING. It’s your opinion. It’s not a crime to have one. Don’t apologize for it. Check this out. Here’s my opinion.

Literary analysis is a complete and utter waste of time.

Am I going to apologize for that? No. It’s the truth, at least in my mind, and I shouldn’t have to say I’m sorry for thinking so. Nobody else should have to, either. It’s not your problem if you offend someone. Maybe the other person needs to lighten up.

And then people say that they’re sorry when they’re talking to somebody about a loss they’ve had. “I’m sorry that your husband died.” Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything! You didn’t kill him, so you have nothing to be sorry for. You can be upset, and you can be saddened, but you can’t be sorry if it’s not your fault.

Finally, people say they’re sorry when they do something small, like step on somebody’s toe or when they knock over someone’s book. It would be proper to say sorry - if you mean it. If you don’t care whether or not you bumped into someone, don’t say “sorry” half-assedly. Most people can tell when you’re not actually sorry, and when they figure it out, you look like an insincere dick. At least if you keep your mouth shut, you only look like a dick, not an insincere one.

In short: Stop saying sorry when you don’t mean it, and make sure you say it in the right context. “I’m sorry” is an apology, so only say it when you’re apologizing for something you’ve actually done wrong.