To the Creative Writers Guilde, upon the initial planning function this Friday:

Hello friends, hello Madonna Bacchanale, hello fellow writers, hello former department head, hello all who have worn the tattered robes (however figurative) of composition, hello Kyle (who probably arrived late and was applauded), hello Dolly. I write to you from my desk, which is tucked neatly into a corner of A-109, one of the many comfortable English classrooms at South Iredell High School, surrounded by a bulletin board full of poetry, calendars, copies from dictionaries, and towering piles of student work that threaten to bury me alive. My desk makes Elizabeth Addison's office look _neat_.

Part of me wants to admit that teaching is hell, that the rumors are all true, that kids are inherently evil, that the pay is miserable, that there's no time for fun stuff, that the tests matter too much to administrators, that the future is inevitably doomed because the next generation of kids sits within the faded cement walls of my English classroom... well, most of me wants to admit that.

My days are polarized; the mornings are often unbearable, but the afternoons are sometimes so great that no one wants to leave. My freshmen class is composed of a group of children whose primary ambition, it seems, is to get stoned by using whatever agent available. One child tried overdosing on the vitamin B12, but for some reason the pills only caused his skin to turn bright red. He asked to be move next to the air conditioner. In this class, I have had four students politely inform me that they are waiting to turn 16 so they can drop out--well, actually three. The fourth dozed off before he could muster like words. My failure rate is 48%. But then there were the sophomores...

There must be some mysterious spiritual revelation that comes in the summer months between one's freshmen and sophomore years. While I won't bore you with many more details about how gigantic the sophomores seem in maturity, responsibility, and valor when compared to the freshmen, I will say that I will work hard to bribe my department head when she begins composing next year's class loads.

But as much as I want to complain about teaching, I find it's only the freshmen who draw that vile, bitter admonishment of education from me. The sophomores cause me to feel as if I have been elevated to teaching among the likes of . My honors class often appears to be teaching themselves...they finish my sentences, fill in my lectures, and generally keep me challenged to stay one step ahead. The students would make many flush with envy. To be perverse, they're like teaching a wet dream.

A bell sounded off about twenty seconds ago, and I am again reminded how quickly time moves on without my noticing. Alas, I shall close. And, I'm sure Brittany (or the poor soul elected to read this) is probably growing hoarse.

I hope that writing is going well for you all. Best wishes for a productive and spirited semester. My goal is to make at least one meeting before Christmas. I remain

Yours until the pen runs dry,

The Successor

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