I am a goldfish.
I swim around in my little fish bowl and burp up teeny, tiny bubbles
that are labeled things like “onomatopoeia” and “hyperbole.”
Talking about love always feels like such a cliche.
Working with high schoolers, they tell me about their new loves and their old loves and the loves that they fear they may never have. And their whole lives up until now (and maybe even still now), people have been telling them that these loves don’t count. It’s just high school. You’re only fourteen.
None of this is real.
For a hundred million years, teeth doctors have been telling lowly peasants to take mint-flavored waxed string, shimmy it in between their teeth, and start slicing their gums open with it.
I’m sitting in a Panera right now (because I’m a corporate sellout…and Dagny’s was too busy) listening to No Doubt at a teeny-tiny table with an empty chair across from me.
There’s this odd thing happening in education where the “old school,” traditional style of teaching is being replaced by this technology-driven, almost uncomfortably relevant, super-streamlined…”new school.”