Wouldn't it be lovely

I watched "My Fair Lady" last night, with my mom and brother. It provides quite an experience - my brother and I laughing at every rude thing Higgins says, and my mom, who keeps repeating, "Why does she go back to HIM?" It also makes me think of what Katrina said, about Higgins knowing Eliza's headaches. A brilliant thought, in fact, Katrina. Now I want to say it to someone, or have someone say it to me. Especially the latter, I think.

My mother, who is a writing teacher, let me read some of the "day in the life" papers written by junior high homeschoolers. I helped her google/facebook pictures of interesting looking people that the kids wouldn't know, she handed them out, and had the kids write characterizations of them. They gave me a good laugh. Except for one kid, who wrote his in what would like to be a noir style, about a card-shark playboy. At first I laughed, but I mean, how much can a 12 year old homeschooler know much about the noir-nightclub-scene? I've tried noir a few times and have gotten maybe 1 or 2 lines out of 20 to sound legit. Why is that? Noir is so... so unflowery. It's funny that the hardest thing to write well is the thing that one reads most easily.

Then of course, there are the actual essays, and these give me headaches to read. This is why I can't be a teacher, ever. Teachers need to look at papers that clearly suck, and point out a few things that can be changed for the better. When I look at things like that, I have a tendency to want to trash it, whether it's mine or not. The type that drives me absolutely crazy is the paper written by the "smart kid", who talks and talks for pages and doesn't actually say ANYTHING. (This is not hypocritical. I ramble as a hobby, not to impress. There is a clear difference.) Whereas, the quiet kid who doesn't write much can say more in a paragraph than the smart kid who writes novels. It's odd, and I'm not sure where (in essay writing, that is) I fall. I'm told that I write good essays, but the people who tell me this are mostly mothers who want me to marry their sons. Heavens, how big my head has gotten.

I'm curios as to how far a smart person can go before everyone hates them. I'm thinking about Professor Higgins. Some people would positively hate him, I imagine, while I happen to love the man. ("Yes, you squashed cabbage leaf." How can you NOT respect lines like that?) Granted, the man is a pompous windbag. I wonder if people only put up with him because he's a movie character. (Technically, a book character.) If I knew someone like that, he might drive me crazy. But I'm not sure. I know several people who THINK of themselves as Higgins', but that's not quite the same thing.

Anyway. I had a French test today, and didn't really study for it until yesterday. I'm usually good about studying, or at least I cram very well. I scheduled out all the tests though, and must have skipped one, because I thought our next test was in March. This stuff is impossibly hard - all grammar. I hate grammar. I always knew it by intuition, though I never had an actual class or curriculum on it. Now that I'm taking another language, though, it's increasingly difficult. I'm learning more about the English language in French Class than ever before. There's a statement there somewhere but I don't know what it is.

I'm also getting sick. Blast those people who get sick and go out anyway, and get other people sick. They ought to be sent away to Canada.

Speaking of Canada, I almost always say Canadia. Why is that?

There are two guys in my French class who are actually from France. I think it's entirely unfair. I would love to go to a foreign country and take English, though - I wonder what English phrases they teach of ours. Probably silly ones that no one here even says. Anyway, these guys sit in the back of the class room and crack french jokes to each other the whole time. Every once in a while I can catch one and I get an sense of immense satisfaction.

Tonight I'm going to finish Crime and Punishment. I've got about 70 or 80 pages left, though I should have actually finished it last Friday. But that's only because I have an essay due for it THIS Friday. I can write an essay in an hour easily, though, so it's alright. The reason I'm pushing myself is that it's my mom's class, and she's the teacher that expects the most from me. She pointed out today, though, when I was going crazy thinking about how much I've got to do before this weekend, that she's not nearly as hard on me as I am. I hadn't thought about it before - I'm always blaming my workload on what other people want - but it's true. I don't know why I stress myself out so much. I'm most likely to end up in the same place with the rest of my friends who actually are enjoying their highschool years, but some horrible part of me won't allow that to happen. You always hear about the perfectionists while they're tearing their hair out, but you never hear about them afterward. I wonder what becomes of them all. Maybe if I knew I wouldn't have to freak myself out so much. Maybe, maybe... one of the most frustrating words ever.

I'm going to go drink herbal tea (blah) and read for the rest of the night. It sounds increasingly pleasant. So long. ("Goodbye", "See you soon"... I wonder if they'd teach "Later alligator"?)

ps. "She's an owl, sickened by a few days of MY sunshine."
I don't know whether that's the best line I've ever heard or the worst.