You sit in a desk that has been broken for years and flip through a book with problems you once learned in fifth grade. Over and over again teachers insult your intelligence by playing funny tricks and games with the numbers. "So I can say 9 + 2 = 10, right? Ah! See? Just making sure you're paying attention!" You groan inwardly to yourself
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Comments 7
you write very well. plz don't beat me up. i love you.
Sincerely,
a maggot who loves you and your test skillz.
PS. i was thinking a lot about standardized tests today. i think it's all accidental. either you've got accidental guessing skillz or the accidental genes and environmental pressures that make you good at them. there is no such thing as skill until adolescence, and even then it's iffy. you my friend, have skillz. your skillz are better than dot-filling skillz because they deal with cool things like being better than everyone else and dancing. rock on, brotherman, rock on.
i need to come back home. i'm real sick of shit. mostly myself. let's work with old people and be depressed about it together.
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git in my pants. like now.
<3 komissar.
PS. no, i'm just braindead and do not function properly. ever.
come home and yes, let's. summer, where did you go?
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i guess what i'm trying to say, is unemployment rules, and so does tupac.
seriously, though, we should steal a copy of the answers, like in that movie made by alchoholics where everyone gets the answers and then decides not to use them because its not "the right thing to do."
totally weak.
do it to it
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i LOVE you for writing that.
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(home) 283 9594 or
(mom's cell) 319 7429.
don't worry that it's my mom's cell. i have it with me a lot, and if my mom has it, she won't flip or anything. she'll just tell you that she's not me. yup.
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