The ever watchful Matron WordPress has drawn to my attention that I like myself. Yes? So? Obviously I like myself. Otherwise I’d go the lemming’s way: Off the cliff.
Don’t get me wrong, WordPress: You are a good platform for people who like themselves. But you can be a little patronizing. Still, at least you, WordPress, have stopped giving me a gold star for every post I publish. Telling me whether I have reached my quota. What quota? If you, WordPress, were a class at school and I were, say, for sake of argument, five or eighteen years of age I’d just walk out.
Have any of you, my readers, ever walked out of anything? And why?
One of my finer moments when that previously mentioned nemesis of my life, my Maths teacher, set us yet another test. Hushed silence. My friend (she later became a pathologist) sending me a besieging look across the room, signalling me to get the fuck on with it. Well, her effort came to nothing. I took one look at the question. And left the room. And then spent a very enjoyable 45 minutes in the loo smoking a cigarette. Feeling extremely pleased with myself.
Don’t smirk at the above. There is method in my madness. I could have tried to answer the question and made a complete fool of myself. Instead of which I exited nonchalantly – with not a stroke of my pen on the paper, yet with my dignity intact. My dignity being more important to me than being a dismal failure.
So, yes. I got the worst mark of my life. In red ink. On top of which my maths teacher was incandescent at my insubordination. Which reminds me: Why, like Rumpelstilzkin, are short men either very funny (Woody Allen), amazing actors (Dustin Hoffman) or do make your life a misery?
You can tell, can’t you: If I had lived during the French Revolution I’d be dead by now.
Yes. Thanks for the above. I feel so much better for venting one of my many spleens.
Will now catch up with the ever charming Bill Clinton and some of his spoutings two or three weeks ago. Yes, charisma. You either have it or you don’t.