Mr. Heatmiser is back!!

Two and a half years into teaching, I've discovered a pattern. First semester=idealistic over-enthusiasm leads to 14-hour days with no time for anything but dreaming up better ways to educate America's youth. Second semester=too over-worked and burned-out to give a shit, leaving plenty of time for goofing off. And more to the point--blogging. So, a resurrection of sorts for Mr. Heatmiser.
I've decided to stick with shorter tales of teenage angst this time around. Nobody has time to read more than a few hundred words at a time anyways. Plus, I'm hoping this will make for more consistency. Feel free to leave belligerent comments if and when too much time passes between posts.
And while we're here, I'll go ahead and leave a little nugget of teenage angst for you all to feast on. This will transport you back to high school. It goes like this--

I found a note in my room the other day. A genuine handwritten note. Once the bane of teacherdom, now, thanks to texting, a novelty. Of course I read it. It said this:
I know you prob don't care about me anymore but I still really like you and since I'm moving Sunday I was wondering if I could see you one last time just me and you. I know you're gonna say no but I thought I would give it a try. If you want to tell me when and where. Even after I move I'm still gonna care about you. I think maybe being with you one more time might make it easier for me to leave and I won't be so emotional.
The thing that breaks my heart most about this note is not that I found it crumpled up and left on my floor. But that it contains three run-on sentences and a fragment. We spent three weeks going over that crap.