Why I Hate My Parents
This weekend marks what used to be my favorite time of the year – the kickoff to summer vacation.
Unfortunately, this means nothing to me now that I’m in the real world. While all the kids are
celebrating their freedom, I’m cursing them, their teachers and, most of all, my parents.
I mean, my parents were in the real world when I was growing up. They participated in the rat race 52 weeks a year. So why, I ask why, didn’t they once persuade me to be a teacher? Not only is it rewarding to help children yada yada yada, but the time off. Oh the time off!
Being a teacher is the only real world job that I think anyone should actually want. I mean, how much time do they get off? And please, I get it – working with kids is hard and actually getting through to them is difficult, but isn’t it worth the energy since there is a light at the end of the tunnel?
And, it’s not just the time off. How many of you are in my boat and work with d-bags year round? The great thing about being a teacher is that eventually, the d-bags you’re around move on to the next grade. Not in my profession, though. Nope, the d-bags are the gifts that keep on giving all year long.
So, to my parents and my teacher friends, today, I raise my middle finger to you. Don’t talk to me until September.