...Maybe You're Just Demented

The Teacher, for the first time in I don't know how long (what, you think I monitor her every move?) is writing in her journal. Unfortunately, we're currently experiencing something called winter, which is known for being cold and wet. The things that make the Teacher hurt most? You guessed it.

Finally it was all too much for her poor over-worked mind and she snapped. She held up her journal from across the room and showed it too me.

"Look at how bad my handwriting is! It's so baaaaaad!" (I may have taken the liberty of adding a few extra vowels there.)

I looked at it. It looked like her handwriting always does, irritatingly perfect and completely illegible. She learned cursive on a different planet.

"I mean, look at it compared to this day," (imagine a page of identical writing), "Except that day wasn't very good either." (She never has a good day.) "Okay, how about this-" (more identical handwriting) "-No, that's not it either.... Okay, here's before I got so sick. Look at this compared to this."

I looked at it. I looked at her. I looked at it again. I thought about how my handwriting, while usually very legible, resembles earthworm tracks in mud.

And guess what my suggestion to soothe her troubled mind was?

I swear it will be a miracle if I survive to be twenty-one. At some point she's going to decide that no jury will convict her, and then I'm in trouble.