Wk 8, Term 2, Year 1

Attendance is a

Bitch. Having to fake

Concern’ over how they’re

Doing???? When I’ve seen them wagging.

Everytime they lie I see the “she’s buying it…”

Flicker across their face;

Grins

Hardly hidden.

Interval walks to the staff room

Just wind me up.

Knowing students

Love heckling me, compete for the “Hello”, the “Kia Ora”, or the “Hat. Off.”

Miss, miss miss”, they’re always missing me.

None of them give me a break.

Overtired, and feeling the

Pressure

Quietly pressing down on my

Rigid

Shoulders.

Tense

Under the sheer

Volume of my

Workload.

eXhausted

Yet

Zealous, still. Perhaps overly, either way, it’s a good Z word.

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Tomorrow I Start My First Teaching Job

There are many things about me at age 25 that Teenage Britt would a) scoff at, and b) definitely not believe. Starting my first teaching job tomorrow is one of them.

Take a second to imagine Teenage Britt – she’s got bleach-damaged hair, wears high heels as everyday shoes and often rolls her sassy little eyeballs with such emphasis that she looks like she’s having a seizure mid-sentence. She believes enrolling in a Diploma in Fashion Design is the way to kickstart a rags-to-riches narrative, ideally culminating in fame.

10917405_10153671702777715_2382405043405687070_nThere are a few glaring problems with this 18 year old’s enthusiastic plan to become a world-renowned fashion designer.

For a start, she has very questionable taste, no patience for sewing, and lacks the basic numeracy skills necessary for pattern making. Within her first week she will turn up hungover (maybe still drunk?), and start making mistakes. She’s in the wrong place, and doesn’t know how to admit it. Instead of quitting – or  working hard – she complains a lot and eventually gets Lady Gaga ‘Bad Romance’ lyrics tattooed on her foot.

Why? Because walk, walk fashion baby, walk, walk passion baby, apparently.

Continue reading “Tomorrow I Start My First Teaching Job”

I want to write more

Don’t get me wrong. I write.
I wake up in the  morning, pick up my phone and one of the first things I do is write – generally it’s a response. I’ll be messsaging someone back, maybe it’s a boy who trusts me a lot and wants to be my friend (to be fair the most recent batch of friendly boys at least reciprocate and help me with Contemporary Social Theory, or write me reviews), either that or one of my contributors has emailed me to ask a question I’ve already answered on the Facebook page.

In class, I write. Notes, and thoughts. Except in Contemporary Social Thought, where I tend to squiggle in margins and cover the inside of my notebook with bright pink & purple, lime green and blue patterns tessellating from the corner. And a very small “fuck Marx” hidden in the corner.

I’m literally paid to write. But, even that’s a stretch, I’m not employed as a writer, I’m employed as an editor. In the places that I truly am a writer I’m sure as fuck not paid.

I feel like I’m so, so busy, but then I sit on the couch all night and do nothing.

Maybe I want to blog once a week?
Fuck knows, let’s see.