With great contrition do I write this post. It is 10:46 a.m., and after going two rounds with the Children of the Bronx, in my new incarnation as the Drama Teacher, I am exhausted, beat, on the ropes, barely clinging to reality, scraping the bottom of the psychological barrel. On no less than 80 different occasions today, while vainly trying to corral children for a game of Blob Tag, I rehearsed the following letter to my principal:
"Dear Joan, if you care the least bit about my mental health you will absolutely refuse to let me return to teaching under any circumstances, so help me lord Jesus."
The new thing for my first class of kids, (number: 15), is to call me "bi-polar."
"Dear Joan..."
So, forgive me for not posting. The thing is, I'm not sure I really feel comfortable posting anymore. Nothing is going well. True, I'm comfortable with disaster, I court alienation and suffering in order to feel good about my chances for spiritual salvation, as the result of a badly damaged childhood steeped in Catholic guilt and a wildly temperamental parenting situation, all of which has created an vicious craving for huge doses of ATTENTION, so, really, what I'm trying to do, is create a situation where I can MORE and BETTER attention on a wider scale and more consistent basis, because without ATTENTION, the Wombury will shrivel up and die.
Are you following me dear readers? I need more. You need more. We all need more. Let's share, shall we? Speak to me, for the love of Jehovah, speak to me, reach out to me, caress my bruised soul, and I will beam and shine and glow and share all of the inner workings of my pilgrim's essence. But, as it stands now, and I'm not blaming the victim, I'm a sad clown doing shitty balloon puppets at a bar mitzvah.
Now here's a picture of an alpaca,
(don't take that tone with me, young lady, I will smack the taste out ya mouth) Until then,
The Wombury
