begin by saying how people who say they "do not believe common places "are on my cock. There.
And the reason for this is simple: lying shamelessly, it seems fucked up, but in twenty years I have learned that the saying "do not judge a book by its cover" is often in the mouth only to people who in fact, do exactly the opposite. From Mother to the teacher, the teacher in catechist and so on, until you get to high school professors.
Unlike my companions who migrate each month in procession to their old school building, performing "Oh, how I miss his classes!" With such emphasis that rivals Eleonora Duse, even before the professor which gave him an asshole, I'm coming into this place only harmful for three reasons:
- Remove the diploma (which I did then, because the professors have taken me down memory lane to the closure of the secretariat)
- Go to repay a paper that I had borrowed (which I did, like in point 1) to invite Irene
- Go out for coffee. Irene
The above is what is now the paper is called "school staff", but actually all still call contemptuously janitor. Everyone, both in the midgets pubescent hormonal crisis, the professors who, apart from a smile and a 'thank you' when they get the coffee that they ask, do not think even remotely engaging in some conversation.
This is not to say that I am better than them, since for almost all thirteen years of compulsory schooling, I aligned with the consensus, which sees the janitor like a low, weak intelligence , a little 'misanthropic and often South. Also because the vast majority of janitors who I know from a high 1.89, were all low, misanthropes, Italian almost absent and often angry all day. As for women, however, were a bit 'version of the real witch Ursula Disney cartoon "The Little Mermaid", both for physical make-up and perhaps even with magical powers. Sometimes I have come to their fantasies which, from a wooden chair, ruled the brooms as the Witch in Learning. And maybe they too have had similar fantasies.
the fifth year, my ex-school, physical education is strategically placed from 13:40 to 15:10, or the seventh and eighth hours of lezone. Those who, like myself, flaunts a barely disguised misanthropy, and especially misogyny (our class was composed of 23 individual females and 2 males) can not stand this lesson and mathematically skipped. Not so much for fear of being humiliated in the selection of teams, as happened in junior high, since my hand-eye coordination is good enough to allow me to hit a field goal and make jokes that I apply at least 4-5 points in turn in volleyball matches. The real problem was just quest'esasperazione the concept of "class unit" that got on my nerves, especially when it was heralded as a valid excuse to copy in class assignments (which sometimes become real group tasks); abituatesi quickly to the idea that I would not have even pulled out a date (the "oh please, but you're so good at history give us a hand" , I was facing them or with a gelavo n dry or sarcastic answers, only that they cost me in the second case of long chiacherate gnaulente professor of Italian and History * sigh *) were trying to make me huge grin and ignored me for most of the time.
The scheme, in those hours, it was always the same: I came from a professor, I did the 32 teeth in a smile, promising that next time I took two dribbles to the vote to be put into school report, then leave the gym saltelloni and go home.
The day I met Irene, I had forgotten the book of excuses, without which of course I could not self-certify that I wanted to get me out of my salad cock outside the school, and then wandered into the hall like a lost soul .
She was locked in the booth, immersed in reading a book, which already aroused my astonishment (the maximum that Vevo seen reading at his 'colleagues' had DiPiù, that newspaper, which generally has the sterns of some Squinzi famous on the cover with a statement like "chick GUY AND WILL BE 'TRUE LOVE?" or shocking statements type of maternity leave from an alleged six-figure): when he told me he was reading Michael Connelly in English , I nearly dropped my jaw on the floor.
Who has read the book "The Elegance of the Hedgehog" will be faced with a deja-vu: a woman vaguely meaningless, spectacles on nose and rather stout, wrapped in her blue apron proves to be the perfect embodiment of the stereotype until ... PUFF! The frog becomes the prince, the lady in question turns out to be a globetrotter ipertatuata, who spends six months a year in Australia, speak English as their native language, and worships Heinlein is passionate about history.
hell broke loose, in a moment I had to change my mind about a stereotype that lasted for nearly three quarters of my life and realize that before I had a real rare bird: from this event then have followed chats and exchanges of books (The Great Gatsby that The work was rewarded with the Black Stranger, mistaken for a hug and a long list of thanks expressed in various formulas). And a postcard from Australia, where I did the best wishes for maturity.
Now living miracle and I said let us fondly of you, making jealous those professors who believed that I entered into the heart, and that they are told promptly " No, actually I'm here for Mrs. Irene .
What I have gained from this? That clichés should be eradicated from our brains. And those who claim to be open-minded (including teachers, principals and vice) are actually quite dumb people really do not understand that "Do not judge the Monaco".
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