a note from the sub

the things i forgot to tell you today, because i was too busy botching all of your quiz scores.

Month: December, 2013

new years

Greetings Children,

Happy winter break! I hope you’re having lots of fun terrorizing the local establishments, making a spectacle of yourselves at the movie theatre (thanks for ruining The Hobbit for me,) and sitting in those strange little lounge seats at the mall, playing your X-box or whatever portable video game thing you’re using (WOW am I really this old?)

It’s been a good year, right? It’s been a good year for me. And, after a string of rather mediocre, forgettable years, that’s kind of a big thing. And as much as I have bitched and moaned through every day with you, as always, you’ve been a big part of it. So here are my wishes for you, for 2014:

1. Stop saying “happy new years.” All of you. It’s neither a plural, nor a possessive. It’s one new year. Jesus.

2. I hope you can lose fewer things this year. It seems like we all lost a lot of our crap. This is why you should never bring anything valuable to school.

3. I hope you can do the right thing more often this year. And I don’t just mean stealing each other’s crap, or making up horrible and ridiculous shit about your frenemies. Mostly I mean doing the right thing for yourselves. And if you can’t, I hope that you instead surround yourselves with people who will encourage and/or force you to do the right thing for yourself. And who love you enough to let you resent them until you are able to admit that it was right all along.

I had the opportunity of a lifetime, to travel to another country this summer, and I almost didn’t go because I was too chickenshit. Fortunately, I know myself well enough to understand that I can’t always be trusted with making big decisions and instead left it up to a very trusted friend and mentor, a decision I regretted almost immediately when he promptly told me I was, in fact, going. And I was going to like it.

I am humiliated to tell you this. I cried, and I railed, I spent the better part of a month on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It was a trip to an amazing place, a once-in-a-lifetime work opportunity that would forever change my life, so why did I need someone to literally force me to take it?

I had spent my entire life waiting for an opportunity like this, for a moment when I would think to myself “wow, this is my life, finally showing up!” And I imagined that I would pass through the magic gates and come out the other side this person I’ve always wanted to be, someone who was so much cooler, and wiser, and so sure. In my fantasies, it was life that showed up, and what I learned the hard way is that, in real life, the only one who needed to actually show up was me. And sometimes, showing up is fucking hard, dude. And don’t ever let anyone berate you for having a tough time doing it.

I became exhausted this year, with showing up. I wondered often to myself (I still wonder, to be honest,) if I will ever be able to experience wonderful things in life without having to drag myself kicking and screaming towards them. I can’t tell you if it’s going to get easier, I wish I knew. But this year, I dragged myself halfway around the world, I dragged myself to a pole dancing class, to a tattoo parlor, to a sex shop, to an interview with a talent manager, on and off a dating website, and dragged myself to start a blog, something I have always wanted to do (that I’m still too scared to put my name on… but, baby steps, right?) And you know what? I could not be fucking happier.

And to you, the five adults who read my blog (thank you, I love you so much for it,) I wanted to tell you that I wish that your year is full of  happiness and adventure and love, of laughing until you cry and/or make really laughably ugly faces, of loud music and singing and dancing, and the occasional cathartic bitchface. But, if there is anything I learned this year at all, it is that these things are out there, waiting for us to show the fuck up. So, instead, I hope that we all get super rich.

So much love,

Miss Mikayla Park

self-defense

Dear Girl Who Punched An Older Kid in The Balls Today,

I’m sorry I made you sit outside in the hallway and recount the story of why you assaulted little Jimmy or Brian or whatever his name is twice (once for me and once for the Other Teacher Who Is Better At Peer Mediation.) Quite frankly, once was enough for me because I can’t really understand half of what you mumble, and gave up asking you to repeat yourself at the beginning of last year. And yes, that means I don’t understand any of your jokes. But for what it’s worth, your delivery is hysterical.

I’ll tell you what I know about self-defense. Because, guess what? I know a fucking ton about it. My dad wasn’t just a master of martial arts. He was a Grand Master. And when I, at an early age, was thrown out of my beloved ballet classes (I was always an advocate of a more free-form style of arts exploration) I was promptly placed in Taekwondo class at his studio, where I remained for the next roughly ten years of my childhood, kicking ass and trying to make that shapeless white uniform work for me. I became a black belt and finally had permission to graduate to my high school field hockey team, an extracurricular that fulfilled my personal dress requirements: knee-high socks and plaid miniskirt. But I’ll never forget my Dad’s parting words when he finally handed over that black belt certificate: “My daughter, you’ve learned everything you need to know about self defense. But should you ever need to use it, I want you to forget it all and just: kick ‘em in the balls, and run like hell.”

My father gave me very few pieces of advice in my life, kiddo. I took these words to heart. Do I believe Jimmy was endangering you? Have you had a good look at him lately? The last time I was in his class, he broke the pencil sharpener by repeatedly trying to sharpen his eraser. But that’s not really the point.

This shitty guy followed me around at a bar the other night, and repeatedly insulted me in an attempt to make conversation (“You know what?  I think it’s really great that you are pursuing a career in the arts, I think it’s just great when people try to follow their dreams!”) However, this too was not necessarily a situation in which physical assault could be reasonably defended, so instead I bitchfaced in silence while he yammered on, and then lamely excused myself to close my tab. Know what? Punching him in the balls would have not only saved me a good hour of that bullshit, but also would have made me feel so much better!

You will have precious few years in your life when you can just haul off and slug a guy for being an asshole, and I say enjoy the fuck out of them.

Cheers,

Miss What’s-Your-Name-Again?