Oh me oh my. What is with the 'tude, lately, kiddos? My Mondays and Tuesdays seem to have lodged themselves in permanent Liz-is-such-a-fucking-bitch mode. I really don't know what it could be, since I've got my after school classes firmly reigned in, and even my second graders are starting to play right into my hands. It's not that work is that stressful. But my patience is on seriously low supply these days. Which is not good when you work with children all day long.
Look, boys. Liz Teacher loves you. Really. But Liz Teacher is in dire need of about six cups of coffee, eleven cigarettes and neat glass of scotch or seven at the moment. Please do not pull on my sweater. Please do not play with my hair. Please stop shouting, "샘! 샘! 샘! 샘! 샘!"
I think I'm just simply not getting enough sleep. Since Smalltown picked up a girlfriend, he's been over every week on weeknights to catch up. Which is fine, except that he's hagwon, and doesn't even get off work until 10:30. I really miss him, and don't get the kind of conversation I can have with him anywhere else, so I don't want to pass up the chances to hang out and talk. But God help me.
My big plan was to get a full, whopping seven hours of sleep last night, but that got blown all to hell by The Baby and his adolescent dramatics. I guess that's not really fair, considering that once I got to the bottom of all the "noona"s and "I miss you"s, it came out that his "friend went to the heaven." Fuck sake. What do you say back to that? Apparently, after I refused to come out, he phoned Smalltown with some seriously hyperactive behavior and Smalltown hung up on him, after they got into a little tiff, resulting in the "(SMALLTOWN) IS A BAD FRIEND" text.
Don't think I didn't think about it, Dear Reader. The thought did run through my mind -- Look. It's midnight and it's cold as shit outside. I'm not going out to the bar. I'm going to bed. But. If you want. If you want you can....
No. Stop right there. No more random little university boys in the bed. Especially not the semi-alcoholic, emotionally damaged variety. I'm all noona-ed out. I've got a hell of a reputation for picking up what are commonly referred to amongst my nearest-and-dearest as "lost boys". I feel somehow personally responsible for every waify little doe-eyed, directionless, artistically inclined male nymph that crosses my path. Like God put me on this earth specifically to deal with them. But those ain't the facts, my lovelies. And I'm tired. And too old for this baloney.
Hell, it's not even interesting anymore. I can trace the lines almost a decade into the future, right down to the very last detail.
In other news, with the third graders leaving at the half day because of exams, the first graders have taken over the EOZ during lunchtime. Today they showed me this, which I think I'll call the head-in-your-neighbor's-ass game: