it's a true story kids

When I was a senior in high school I took a sewing class...no doubt to fill one of those purposeless artsy credit requirements set up by school board directors nationwide in an attempt to "well-roundify" their student populations. Do pardon me, but if a human does not wish to be an artist, the artwork you force he or she to produce will only inflict (perhaps significant) damage upon the other, (perhaps more agreeable) inhabitants of the planet. But this is neither here nor there.

When I was a senior in high school I took a sewing class. I was assigned a machine station betwixt two lovely girls of latin decent. (Allow me to interject that I have absolutely nothing against hispanic culture nor it's community members. I love them. Almost all of them.)
On my right sat Katrina, on my left Anna. (Names have been changed for protection. Even though they don't deserve it.) Throughout an entire semester these two "chicas" spent every B3 period making fun of me in their native tongue of Espanol. "Oh my gosh...this girl sucks at sewing." "Are those the same jeans she wore last week?" "Ay Caramba! Esta muchacha no puedo aser nada! Ole!" etc. etc. All very biting comments as you can see. I bode my time as patiently as an emperor penguin in Artarctica during the 4 bitter winter months it spends fighting for not only his own life, but the life of it's soon to be infant emperor penguin, as the mother leaves to find food and stuff herself silly on a variety of fish so that after making the months long trek back to her little family she can regurgitate said fish into her new infants mouth and save it from starvation, thus forming a truly secure mother-child bond. That patiently.
During the last week of the term Katrina turned to Anna and asked her in Spanish, "Anna, when is our portfolio due?" I turned to her calmly and said, "Next Thursday." I then proceeded to shrug my shoulders, smile slightly to myself and send a quick silent thank you into the sky to all of my former Spanish Immersion teachers. Love you Sra. Ware.
The looks on their faces were oh so priceless, and not unlike the look J.D. so frequently dons after Dr. Cox calls him Shirley and puts him in his place with an incandescent rant. Sigh.

Also perhaps not unlike the face you now wear after reading this post. My best to you.
In summary... I still think I want to be a spy when I grow up. I'd be radder than rad at spying. I'm so good at being patient and lying. And also staying on task without straying through useless tangents.