To Whom the World Revolves Around

(Disclaimer:  The following blog is not about you…unless it’s about you, but it’s mainly about me.  Of course, it’s probably about you, too, but only if everything is about you, which it is, or is it? And yes, I’m blatantly aware that my title ends with a preposition.  Sue me, but not really.  I have no $$.)

On behalf of the world, I would like to thank you for giving our planet something so sweet and perfect to orbit.  I would also like to confirm that you are completely correct in your assumption that everything is about you, and, once again, I thank you for providing substance to each and every life on the face of the planet.  You have affected us all immensely.

On a more personal level, it is true that I am completely enamored with and enraptured by the heavenly entity that is you, oh precious center of everything comprehensible.  Everything that I do essentially revolves around you. Every thought is about you, every action is for you, this blog is about you, and last, but certainly not least, every Facebook status is written solely for you.  I am so obsessed with you that my bodily functions withhold themselves until I can consciously reason that, based on you, these functions are appropriate.  In short, my poops (if I pooped) revolve around you, too.

You might wonder why the world revolves around you. How did everything in existence come to be about you?  How does everyone know you?  How can everyone care so much about you?  A-ha!  It must be your ubiquitousness.  You have somehow managed to thrust your god-like presence onto everyone on the planet in such a way that you cannot be ignored.  It seems to be a tall order, but you have accomplished it, so let’s take a moment for the world population to give you a celebratory pat on the back. 

(Please, just for a moment, stop patting yourself on the back to make enough room for us to squeeze in.   Thank you.)

Each and every one of us appreciates all the unsolicited advice that we can get.  In truth, while it’s often taboo to be so abrupt and honest, we’re all too stupid to make our own decisions.  We need someone to advise us in every aspect of life.  Yep, we  need someone to tell us what to feel, how to act, what to wear, what hobbies to have, what decor to use for fancy soirees, what religious beliefs to hold, whom to vote for, what practices to practice, etc..  So, thank you for all the excellent jewels of knowledge that you have bestowed upon your lesser pupils.

While it’s clear that we all love and admire you, it’s also clear that we despise and hate you.  While we say nice things to your face, and we do everything that we do just for you, it’s only right that we all stab you in the back.  You see, all the whispers and glances correlate to your insecurities and fears, your ultra long toes and your strangely pointed nose. We gossip about your personal life because we have no personal lives of our own, and we spread lies to tarnish your perfect reputation in our feeble attempt to boost our own (lack of) morale. To put you at ease, it’s not Tinnitus that’s making your ears ring.  We’re all just talking about you.  This mindless chatter is to lessen the pains of our mundane lives that would be utterly meaningless without the sweet, sweet center of our vast universe.   Thank you for providing purpose for our otherwise useless existences. Thank you for your time, but remember, we’re all on your time.

Love,

Michele

P.S.  Can a postscript be a question?  I guess it can be. 

P.S.S. How can some people really think that they’re so important that everything someone says or does directly relates to them?  Is anyone that important?

If you find that in any place above, the word “you” applies directly to you, take your massive ego outside and have a nice day.

English Going to Hell in a Handbasket

 On a weekly basis, a conversation usually happens in which someone asks where I went to school and what I earned a degree in, and when they hear that I was an English major, if they don’t already know where I work, they say, “Oh, you’re a teacher then?”.  No, I’m not a teacher, and I have a good reason.  I would probably fail the majority of my students and become the notoriously honest teacher.  We’ll go with the word “honest”.  Education, especially when it comes to literature and grammar, seems to have gone wayward.  Who knows, maybe classrooms need an “honest” teacher like me, but I’m pretty sure that you’ll never catch me in the front of a classroom for the sole reason that I’d like to keep my remaining sanity.

Education in English may have been going downhill for some time now because, in a world where the bulk of our communication is typed, it’s amazing how terrible some people write.  No one is infallible, but you’d think that if a person has grown up speaking a language, they would have at least become proficient in writing it and understanding it.  If they haven’t, why would anyone take them seriously when it comes to other things? 

If my cardiologist sent me a letter that said, “All you’re insurance papers or in order, and I’m reddy to perform you’re open heart surgery, come in tomorrow around 11:30 and i’ll cut ya open before my lunch break for cheep have a nice day,” I probably wouldn’t be in the same room as this person, much less sedated on a table while he has a scalpel. 

I could probably forgive someone whose native language isn’t English.  It’s kind of endearing when someone whose native tongue is different slips up,  but  I grew up with two bilingual parents who were raised by my four French and English-speaking grandparents who were raised by  my eight French-speaking great grandparents.  My dad didn’t know a lick of English until his first year of school, but he speaks and writes very well these days.  How can someone speak and write better in their second language than someone else in their first and only language?  It’s quite baffling!  Maybe my parents are just smarter than most people.  Who knows!

You have to wonder what goes through some people’s minds.  How do they think?  The way that I write is the way that I think.  The sentences that I type/write are straight from my brain in the format that I think them.  If all of the words in my head were to print themselves out and float around the room, all the similar ideas would go together and fit into cohesive blocks while all the lagniappes would get stowed away in a completely different compartment with subdivides where the things that are alike would attempt to find each other.  It’s a pretty organized place.

Every now and then, I start to think that I’m crazy, but when I read something that says, “some people are so stupid i gotta pee, my nose itches,” I begin to think that I’m pretty normal and actually a little boring.  I’d imagine that scary things happen in this person’s mind.  Green slime is probably oozing out of the walls of the brain in question, and there might be  a clown and a donkey on opposite ends of a teeter totter going in circles, and words are carelessly strewn about in multiple funky fonts that are color coded in an illogical manner. 

People with bad grammar like to argue with other people, too, which is amazing.  While I can look past a little bad writing to see a good point, I usually never see a good point from someone with bad grammar.  They will probably refute the fact that they’re terrible, terrible writers with the fact that they’ve passed every English class that they’ve ever taken, and they were smart enough to earn a college degree.

I’ll never be able to stand in front of a classroom and teach people who are perfectly fine with just getting by.  I’m too much of a perfectionist.  I’m the girl who consistently says that I’m bad at math because I made 2 B’s in it during my whole school career.   I just don’t understand what’s happening in this world.  Shouldn’t all people have high standards for themselves?  I should probably boycott reading all together….