I’ve been off the grid for a while. I’d like to say I was chosen as the new 007 agent and had to recover a priceless diamond/nuclear launch codes/world leader from utter catastrophe, but this, sadly, is not the case. The truth is much less explosive, much less dangerous, much more stirred than shaken. I was simply, in simple terms, referring to my simple actions, busy. I can easily look to the end of classes as validation, and I will. Papers and papers and papers. Seven pages about fascism. Ten pages about the Taliban. Nine pages about my trip to New York. Now, that last one does seem like the odd one out. It even sounds fun to some. But, what if I told you *flashlight under chin, said in spooky voice* THAT IT WAS WRITTEN IN FRENCH!
Yes, French, the bane of my education. Many call it the language of love. I call it the language of required credits. I’ll one day appreciate its beauty, its flow, its bravado (ironically, a Spanish word), but today’s not the day. Neither will the next thousand. This is one of those cases where my education won’t come from school, where it won’t come from a teacher. That reminds me, French teachers always had the best disapproving glares. Beat out Science teachers for sure. English teachers never seemed to glare. Probably because of their love of poetry and happy endings. But that’s beside the point.