We Are Young

      My mother, in her quest to make me into a better daughter, has decided that I need to write Dr. F, my English teacher, "one of my little stories".

Mom: You should write him a story, to show him what he taught you!
Me: ...He taught me how to dodge pens thrown at my head.
Mom: But it would be nice to give him something as a reminder of when he taught.
Me: I am fairly sure he wants to retire to California and never see any of us again.
Mom: *death glare*
Me: *unaffected*
Mom: I remember my mother was a teacher for thirty years, and it meant the world to her when a student wrote her a little note.
Me: She wasn't a teacher like Dr. F.
Mom: She was a teacher.
Me: Did she throw desks around? Did she toss backpacks to hobos in need of fires?
Mom: ...
Me: Exactly.

     There was more to that conversation, but it was boring and consisted mainly of my mom telling me I need to show compassion for others. Apparently I'm an unsympathetic, feeling-less robot now. Actually, I'm just really sarcastic and a good liar. There's a difference.
     ANYWAYS. I may actually write something after all, but it won't be fluffy and joyful, it'll be cynical and stuff because that's how I write, thankyouverymuch. It'll still be lighthearted and pretty happy because I like the class, but my mother needs to accept that I do not write cheerful shit. End of story. But perhaps I will write down the tale of a girl in Leadership English I who actually survived her freshman year of high school.
    We'll see.
<3,
Lani
P.S. If I ever publish a collection of my flash fiction, I am going to call it "Short Stories and Some Shit". Is that weird?
P.P.S. I have a whole long blog post I need to finish about... stuff I need to finish. It should be somewhat interesting.
P.P.P.S. If you're wondering where the title came from (You weren't? You are now.), try and guess which song I'm listening to.
P.P.P.P.S. I'll shut up now.