Sharing a computer: Sharala, I hear you.

Currently this is the first time I've been on my machine for real since yesterday morning, as L has taken to chat rooms and sharing her interests, under... uhhh... 'adult' supervision. Webkinz started this, and now she's moved to Nick-o-Life or some such thing. She got all upset last night over some cyber kid asking her to leave a cyber room, and I was at a loss.

Right now I'm looking out the window, watching my semi-retired Latin King neighbors bringing new dogs (guess the breed! Go on, guess!) into the house, and thinking, 'a feud with a neighbor is a big deal; a feud with somebody online, with no physical presence, means nothing'.

I'm back in Elementaries, and back into Special Ed, for real. I'm okay with that. I like people with real disabilities. I could not possibly care less about the 'BD' people, behavioral disordered. No offense, but really, screw them. I am not well behaved, at all, and I don't see anyone in the real world bending over backwards to facilitate me. You got a problem with your behavior? Yeah, that's right, it's your problem. The only reason I got away with my hideous past behavior was from living in ghettoes, where my hideous behavior was not performed for profit. Which made a difference with the police, and why I understand why Richie Daley will never, ever be prosecuted for corruption.

On the other hand, I like real Special Ed. I had a girl today with actual (!) dyslexia, in which she alternated letters on either side of a capital letter for her name! I could have kissed her for being Learning Disabled. I felt great helping her out and was totally fine all day. The kids were a pain the butt but fascinating, rewarding, grateful, and wonderful. I love genuine Special Ed.

I have no problem shoving a rock up a hill if it's not the rock's fault.

However, we're in for major, major budget cuts. Big-time. I would like to think this means more work for me, but it doesn't, and it resulted in my doing an application this evening at a temp agency while sitting at a folding table with three of my high school students, competing with them for part-time work. At least this time, while filling out a W4, when I told the dumbass presenting ghetto-trash to stop kicking the table while I wrote down my SSI#, he did it without getting f---ing lippy. Punk.

While buying a 6-pack at the grocery store, which is filled with both dummy College kids from the East Side and also Mexicans, since the other full-line grocery store went out of business, I ran into a student of mine. I said nothing, but he said, "Hey, Mr. LN! You were my Media Sub!" I responded, "Hola!" And then told his elderly grandmother in a courtesy cart, "Buenos Tardes!" To which she giggled and responded in kind.