Ugh.
For the past two weeks I’ve been firmly entrenched in the great big scary beastie that is the 9th grade research paper, and I’m so very, very, very tired. Understandably, the act of assessing the validity of sources, compiling facts, and synthesizing them into a paper complete with proper citations is a fairly challenging undertaking for the average fifteen-year-old so I do my best to be patient and kind, but after two weeks that’s getting harder and harder to do. Every day I seem to develop a throbbing headache that, like clockwork, starts around 11am and then miraculously disappears at precisely 2:12pm. Maybe the whole ordeal wouldn’t be so painful if it weren’t for the questions – the constant barrage of questions. For three hours of my day I feel like I’m on a game show where I am forced to deflect a steady stream of questions in order to keep myself from falling off the ledge and into the water tank teeming with circling sharks. The questions aren’t exhausting because they’re thought-provoking:
“Mrs. W, how does this computer turn on?”
“Mrs. W, where’s the parenmathetical button on this keyboard?”
“Mrs. W, does my head look lumpy to you?”
“Mrs. W, who do you think would win in a fight – me or Arnold Schwarzenegger?
“Mrs. W, what’s a thesis?”
“Mrs. W, do you want to see my pecs dance?”
“Mrs. W, what month is two?”
…because most of them require rather simple answers:
“Try the big blue button.”
“You mean the parenthesis key?”
“Yes.”
“Neither. Chuck Norris would beat you both.”
“Seriously?”
“No.”
“Black History Month.”
…but they are incessant and pervasive and inescapable.
But don’t cry for me, Argentina; I’ll be alright. Sure, a weaker woman who was not raised on a healthy diet of Catholic guilt and her father’s “walk it off” life philosophy might spend more time hiding in the bathroom than I do, but it’s Friday and I have two beautiful, research paper-free days looming on the horizon. On those two days I’m looking forward to not once being addressed by my surname, not reading anything written by a fifteen-year-old, sitting down, responding only to declarative statements, and – if I play my cards right – spending a good, solid hour in a silent room staring blankly at a wall.
And it will be bliss.
For the past two weeks I’ve been firmly entrenched in the great big scary beastie that is the 9th grade research paper, and I’m so very, very, very tired. Understandably, the act of assessing the validity of sources, compiling facts, and synthesizing them into a paper complete with proper citations is a fairly challenging undertaking for the average fifteen-year-old so I do my best to be patient and kind, but after two weeks that’s getting harder and harder to do. Every day I seem to develop a throbbing headache that, like clockwork, starts around 11am and then miraculously disappears at precisely 2:12pm. Maybe the whole ordeal wouldn’t be so painful if it weren’t for the questions – the constant barrage of questions. For three hours of my day I feel like I’m on a game show where I am forced to deflect a steady stream of questions in order to keep myself from falling off the ledge and into the water tank teeming with circling sharks. The questions aren’t exhausting because they’re thought-provoking:
“Mrs. W, how does this computer turn on?”
“Mrs. W, where’s the parenmathetical button on this keyboard?”
“Mrs. W, does my head look lumpy to you?”
“Mrs. W, who do you think would win in a fight – me or Arnold Schwarzenegger?
“Mrs. W, what’s a thesis?”
“Mrs. W, do you want to see my pecs dance?”
“Mrs. W, what month is two?”
…because most of them require rather simple answers:
“Try the big blue button.”
“You mean the parenthesis key?”
“Yes.”
“Neither. Chuck Norris would beat you both.”
“Seriously?”
“No.”
“Black History Month.”
…but they are incessant and pervasive and inescapable.
But don’t cry for me, Argentina; I’ll be alright. Sure, a weaker woman who was not raised on a healthy diet of Catholic guilt and her father’s “walk it off” life philosophy might spend more time hiding in the bathroom than I do, but it’s Friday and I have two beautiful, research paper-free days looming on the horizon. On those two days I’m looking forward to not once being addressed by my surname, not reading anything written by a fifteen-year-old, sitting down, responding only to declarative statements, and – if I play my cards right – spending a good, solid hour in a silent room staring blankly at a wall.
And it will be bliss.
Labels: so much asprin
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home