Another Long Year

Another Long Year

By: Phillip McCutcheon

         As I walked into class for the first time, my teacher screeched, "Book bags on the floor and take a seat!" I looked at her like she was crazy, and then I set my backpack on the floor. Once I set my bag down, I decided to go grab a tissue. As I blew my nose, the teacher tip-toed towards me and asked me what my name was. She was about an inch from my face, and that was when I realized that this was going to be a long year.

         I am absolutely horrific at math. Fractions, integers, proportions, multiplication, division, I just can't stand it. There is no possible way in the history of mankind that I, Phillip McCutcheon, can make all A's in math for one whole year. Every single word problem takes a fourth of my brain and heaves it in the garbage. The words rejoice as if they've just won the NBA Championship, and I am the opposing team.

         Also, my teacher, Miss Boclearly, is one of the main reasons why I want to blow chunks when I hear, see, or even think about math. If you were to ask one of the people in my math class what my math teacher looked and acted like they would say it like this: mountain of moles, zit zapped, pimple punished, snot eating, nose picking, arm pit hair growing, one eye bigger than the other, unibrow lover, yard long toenails, color changing ear wax, pre-k teacher worthy, most repulsive, immature teacher in the universal school district. The foulest thing about those, sad but true, insults is only an eighth of what is coming next year.

         Hopefully she doesn't move up to 8th grade with me, because if she does, I will be in huge trouble. I am not going to risk my life looking at or smelling that nasty teacher. Clearly, all Miss Boclearly (or Mr. Boclearly?) has taught me this year is that math and that wild teacher is one of the worst combinations. No doubt about it.