Some people dream of success. Some dream of naked hotties. I dream of my dickface fourth grade teacher...

I woke up in the middle of the night again after having a dream in which I, along with a very old pal who I’ve lost touch with, found ourselves in a city that would probably be the lovechild of San Francisco and the Salt Lake Avenues if there was such a thing. (I think it was important for the purpose of my dream that the houses were on hills). We were traveling (pretty much floating) downhill between houses through side yards and allies and over porches. It was just as a summer walk at dusk would be except for the floating part. Along the way, we passed people who were also out for summer strolls. I knew each of the people we passed from high school, middle school, or elementary. It was awkward, as you would imagine and extra weird because each individual was completely obscure and forgettable, but somehow significant. I wasn’t friends with any of them; they were just acquaintances whose memories I had tucked away into the deepest burrows of my unconscious. (I woke up from this dream thinking “WTF? Really? That guy?”)

(I’m going to use real names in hopes that no one actually reads this blog.)

There was Angela James. She was this girl who was a few notches lower on the dorkometer than I was so I liked her. My memory of her is from 1st or 2nd I think. She was the only kid in school brave enough to actually blow her nose instead of wipe it on her sleeve. She’d just honk away at the back of the classroom while everyone would laugh because she sounded so damn ridiculous. I was secretly jealous because I longed to rid my nose of snot so badly I could have farmer-blew it into the next county. She would also always chew on the eraser end of pencils. We’d all ask her why and she’d reply that she had a medical condition that required it in order to strengthen her gums. She was pretty different and I bet if I googled her now, I’d find that she is a performance artist who most definitely incorporates monotonous recitation into her act along with other props like lube and compost. Picture a naked woman wrapped in plastic wrap at the center of the stage with a spot light on her unruly bush. She looks out blankly at the 5 person audience and shouts “vagina!” That’s Angela. In my dream, she pushed a wheelbarrow and waved.

Then there was Jordan Spencer. He was this kid that looked just like Paul Rubens and was a perfect oval from the tip of his head down to his shoes. I remember him from 5th, but I think we went to the same high school too. I liked him, but I think I might have been mean to him a couple of times. I remember him saying with a scarlet face, “Lindsey, that’s really rude.” I probably told him he was an oval Pee-wee Herman. I don’t think we were friends, and I’d be pretty shocked if he remembers me. Still, he dropped by to say hi in my dream and I’m glad. He was alright.

A slightly awkward appearance in my dream was this kid Brock. His name should give you an indication of just how lame he was. I had a crush on him in 6th. He had a shiny blond bowl-cut that I would stare at when he played soccer at recess. He knew I liked him and it made him uncomfortable. My 6th grade teacher also knew I liked him which made me EXTREMELY uncomfortable. During Secret Santa she arranged for him to pick my name. I know she did it on purpose because shit like that just didn’t happen to me naturally. It was truly gay. I would tell him thank you for the presents I'd find on my desk after lunch (and try to be as flirtatious and coy as a 6th grader in hiking boots and braces possibly could be.) I’d walk by his desk smiling and say in my brace face voice “Gshee thankth for the Kaboodlsh bax, Brack. It’sch real nicshe.” He’d say “my mom got it.” My teacher, Mrs. Dobson meanwhile was kicking herself for being such a meddlesome bitch. In my dream, Brock was being pushed around on a stretcher, his golden bowl cut thrashing around as I’d always remembered it.

Misty Jorgenson was hanging out on my grandma's porch in this dream. She was this girl who sat at my table in Language Arts in 6th. Misty had white hair and looked just like a Charmkin. I liked her because she had so much random shit in her desk all the time. She always had fantastic school supplies, some of which were probably stolen. She always had a collection of paperback book covers, and tons of yarn. We had many a conversation where it was exceedingly clear to me that she was lying through her teeth about pretty much everything under the sun. She came in to class one day telling me that she'd just moved back to Salt Lake from Kenya where she'd lived with her stepfather and 17 servants. I suppose this tale was somewhat feasible, but when she said that she'd actually flown helicopters over the Kalahari and saved thousands (yes thousands) of elephants from poachers, I knew I was dealing with a crazy person.
Here is a typical conversation with Misty:

Misty: I have to leave early today because my mom is taking me to Lagoon.

Me: It's winter.

Misty: They're opening it just for me and my mom because my stepfather is paying them 3 million dollars (remember this is 6th grade).

Me: That's pretty cool Misty.

Misty: Yah. We're probably going to move there this summer.

Me: Really? Are you sure you're not just a compulsive liar?

Misty: When I sneeze, I sneeze glitter instead of spit.

There were several others I encountered, but before I bore everyone to tears going through every single one, I have to write about Mr. Strebble. Mr. Strebble's name should have been Mr. Geeky McGeekerson Fucktard McGee Assbreath. He wasn't even in my dream. I just hate him and want to write about it. He was the worst teacher ever in the history of the universe. I'm not sure if he made an actual appearance in my dream, but I woke up from it thinking about how badly I hate him. Mr. Strebble taught 4th grade math. He was resentful of his students and everyone else on the planet since he felt no one understood his true genius. I could tell, even in 4th grade, that this guy was a real pile. He hated us all probably because NASA rejected him and he was stuck with a bunch of 4th graders. He spent a lot of time mocking us as a group at just how idiotic we were for not grasping story problem number two in which Tom, required to tow 16 donkeys across the river, rowed 4 rafts from bank to bank only to leave how many donkeys on shore???

Strebble was a dick in general but mainly to me. There were a couple of units in math that I couldn't grasp. I realize now, it was due to the fact that I'm number retarded. I honestly couldn't translate numbers from the chalkboard to my paper accurately. The chalkboard was like a black hole meant to fuck with my mind. It caused me to see things backwards for some reason. As you can imagine Me + Fractions = Death. I'm still chalkboard and number retarded to this very day. I've actually had a college professor and my 7th grade geometry teacher tell me I’m mildly dyslexic. (I told them their faces were dyslexic). Needless to say the whole thing left me completely frustrated. I'd look around and see all of the other kids obtaining the correct sum, and I'd have some 6 digit number no where near right. It was awful and to make matters worse I kept testing into the "challenging" math class each year along with the "smart kids". I'd sit there among Butler Elementary's math elite and think "god I'm an idiot. Somebody kill me." I would look at the board and then at my paper and wonder what in the hell was wrong with me. Eventually the frustration would take hold and I'd start to cry. All of the other kids and the teachers (mainly Strebble) would notice but ignore me. It was as if my cries for help weren't being heard but the pee-soaked Resource kids got free lunch. Piss yourself and somebody notices. What a joke.

I realize all of this now as an adult, but as a kid I couldn't tell what the problem was. I started to believe I was actually stupid. Mr. Strebble didn't help. I'd tell him "I don't get it." He'd say "What Lindsey? What don't you get?" Right in front of the whole class too. What a cock. I'll tell you what I don't get Strebble.

I don't get why you're so ugly and your teeth look like calcified fart. I don' t get why you adjust your balls so much. I don't get why you're so delusional about your intelligence. You teach 4th grade math in PUBLIC SCHOOL. Time to give up the dream. I don't get why you keep your dandruff on your scalp until you get to my desk. I don't get why you can't figure out why I keep getting behind in your class. I don't get why you're so jaded you can't even fucking TEACH for crying out loud. I hope you get asshole cancer.

Encountering all of these people from my past reminded me of how stressful and difficult childhood actually is. We forget, as adults, just how hard it is to be a kid. I hope when I'm a mom I remember that. I hope that when I get caught up with life's bullshit--- with the bills, work, etc, I can see that my child is also experiencing stress and frustration. Just because Nino won't be paying the bills doesn't mean he won't be fighting battles. I hope that if Nino gets a Strebble, that I can make sure he goes to school equipped with the right tools to deal with it.

Nino: "The Absolute Maximum is the all-time, one-and-only, single, absolute and total maximum value of a function over a specified domain of the function. You should know this. You are the teacher."

Strebble: (makes fart noise)

Nino: "You're a cock sucker."