My Cardboard Balcony

You're going to have to forgive me for being vague in this introspection, y'all - most of you will understand what I'm talking about without hearing the specific word for it. The context is there. The subtext is there. The in-text citations are there...wait, no. No, that's my English teacher side bursting out of its cage. My bad. Just to make things clear, about eighty percent of my work is going great. Despite having to remind my students to, you know, be polite and stop chatting every ten seconds, I'm starting to realize how respected I might be as a teacher. Maybe not popular - I refuse to believe anyone at my high school who says I'm a popular or revered teacher - but respected nonetheless. Writing's going well, too. Despite being way done with the poetry unit, I'm still occasionally writing spoken word. I'm certainly not writing it as much, but it's becoming a staple. I like being able to create more variety in my writing and my style. A

Wanted: Intergalactic Interpreter by Belinda Roddie I wasn't sure if I could speak the alien's language.

Please don't hand me your emotional baggage before we reach the security checkpoint. I already have my own bags to carry, and I'm not sure if I can even make it past the metal detector. I'm so riddled with obsessive metal piercings already that I might miss one while extracting them all from my ears and lips and nose and tongue. It's everywhere - I can taste the rusted anxiety. Hold your own luggage, weighed down with your sorrows. I am not in the mood to be steeped in your brooding tea.