You are currently browsing the daily archive for May 28th, 2008.
I’m something of a spy. I’m like an undercover agent. I save the world. One semicolon at a time, I save the world, most every day.
It started back when I lived at home; I was waiting for my bar results to come down, but wasn’t too keen on the idea of doing nothing in the meantime. I’m just not a girl for nothing. Sitting still? Not really a skill. Patience? Not so much a virtue as a rote practice.
Turns out, the school district where I grew up out-sources the grading of their English essays. I still find this a bit suspect, but seeing as they hired me, and let me keep working even after I moved to Virginia, I’m willing to overlook any possible fraud on the students (heh). The system is simple: teacher assigns an essay. Teacher sends me the almighty keys to the curriculum, and says “have at it” once the students’ work is in. I log into the system, ignoring the “Welcome, Mr. Teacher!” banner, and score—actually assign a numeric score—to all of the essays.
Pansy teachers. But, pansy teachers keep magda in designer jeans, so all’s well that end’s well, eh? How do I love thee, pansy school district, let me count the ways.
That love has a fast way of deteriorating, however, when 151 ninth grade Shakespearean sonnet analyses crash land into the in-queue. If I read one more thesis that says something lame-ass like “In this sonnet, Shakespeare talks about love,” I just might lose it.
And I might take it out on the HP ordering services man if he calls me one more time. Somehow, HP thinks that someone at my cell phone number has ordered a massive quantity of computer products. Last month, they were calling nearly every day to confirm the products’ readiness, but as my cell is usually off at work, all it amounted to was a string of nonsensical voicemails. Apparently another order is ready. They called at 2.30 am to tell me about it. Then again at 3. I tried to tell them to STOP CALLING, but I’m pretty sure they were in India and I’m pretty sure they didn’t speak much more English than was printed on their script. You’ve got the wrong number, I’d say. And he’d start his spiel over. Stop calling in the middle of the night, I’d insist. He’d apologize, then start over still again. I hung up on him. I hate doing that, but I had so totally been asleep, and Shakespeare has fried my brain.
Bastards. If they call back, I’ll send the pain and agony of sonnet 147 upon them. That’ll teach ‘em.
