wtf, teacher

a re­sponse to Fifth Grade Shit­bag

I’ll nev­er EVER let go of a re­port I wrote on France in the 6th grade.

I worked tire­less­ly us­ing what lit­tle in­ter­net we had and every en­cy­clo­pe­dia or book source I could pos­si­bly find, and I fre­quent­ed li­braries.

I didn’t get an F but the teacher had the au­dac­i­ty to write ALL OVER MY RE­PORT, claims that state­ments I had writ­ten were not in my own words.

Guess what, they were. They were in my own words. Every sin­gle one of those state­ments were metic­u­lous­ly RE­con­struct­ed and re­pro­duced to not re­flect the lit­er­al ver­biage I got from whichev­er source I got it from.

Short from go­ing to France my­self and writ­ing an en­tire book about it.

I still don’t know wtf she want­ed from me.
 

—blu

Flom­mist Blu is an enig­ma. A metaphor wrapped in an al­le­go­ry. ‘I am Jack’s colon. If I get can­cer, I kill Jack.’ Copy­right © 2018 mech­a­nizzm. Im­age: Nor­man Rock­well, Out­side the Principal’s Of­fice, a.k.a. Shin­er (cropped), 1953, source.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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