Red Mosquito

Dev wrote:

daft twat wrote:Had my seniors do some writing this week after reading “The Paper Menagerie.” They could either write about the story or about their own parents. 90% went autobiographical. I swear every year the stories get worse. Tons of stories about deadbeat parents, jailed parents, drugs, alcoholism, abuse, abandonment, the foster care system, dead siblings, finding dead siblings, etc. Those are all annual themes, though. This year I have one who witnessed who he thought was his dad commit suicide in front of him, then was later abused mentally, physically, and sexually by the step dad, and then found out his real dad is in jail. Thought that was going to be the low until my immigrant Guatemalan student currently living in a hotel with his brother wrote about how his mom tried to have one of his uncles kill him, and he recently saw videos from home of his younger siblings being mistreated. How the fuck do these kids do math and apply for college? Jesus Christ.

What do you do, Twat?

daft twat wrote:Had my seniors do some writing this week after reading “The Paper Menagerie.” They could either write about the story or about their own parents. 90% went autobiographical. I swear every year the stories get worse. Tons of stories about deadbeat parents, jailed parents, drugs, alcoholism, abuse, abandonment, the foster care system, dead siblings, finding dead siblings, etc. Those are all annual themes, though. This year I have one who witnessed who he thought was his dad commit suicide in front of him, then was later abused mentally, physically, and sexually by the step dad, and then found out his real dad is in jail. Thought that was going to be the low until my immigrant Guatemalan student currently living in a hotel with his brother wrote about how his mom tried to have one of his uncles kill him, and he recently saw videos from home of his younger siblings being mistreated. How the fuck do these kids do math and apply for college? Jesus Christ.

spike wrote:

daft twat wrote:Had my seniors do some writing this week after reading “The Paper Menagerie.” They could either write about the story or about their own parents. 90% went autobiographical. I swear every year the stories get worse. Tons of stories about deadbeat parents, jailed parents, drugs, alcoholism, abuse, abandonment, the foster care system, dead siblings, finding dead siblings, etc. Those are all annual themes, though. This year I have one who witnessed who he thought was his dad commit suicide in front of him, then was later abused mentally, physically, and sexually by the step dad, and then found out his real dad is in jail. Thought that was going to be the low until my immigrant Guatemalan student currently living in a hotel with his brother wrote about how his mom tried to have one of his uncles kill him, and he recently saw videos from home of his younger siblings being mistreated. How the fuck do these kids do math and apply for college? Jesus Christ.

And that first kid grew up to be Pearl Jam.

lennytheweedwhacker wrote:

Dev wrote:

daft twat wrote:Had my seniors do some writing this week after reading “The Paper Menagerie.” They could either write about the story or about their own parents. 90% went autobiographical. I swear every year the stories get worse. Tons of stories about deadbeat parents, jailed parents, drugs, alcoholism, abuse, abandonment, the foster care system, dead siblings, finding dead siblings, etc. Those are all annual themes, though. This year I have one who witnessed who he thought was his dad commit suicide in front of him, then was later abused mentally, physically, and sexually by the step dad, and then found out his real dad is in jail. Thought that was going to be the low until my immigrant Guatemalan student currently living in a hotel with his brother wrote about how his mom tried to have one of his uncles kill him, and he recently saw videos from home of his younger siblings being mistreated. How the fuck do these kids do math and apply for college? Jesus Christ.

What do you do, Twat?

Ice cream truck training instructor.

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.