Dear Dumb Diary,
TEACHERS DON'T FART.
I spend something like eight months a year, seven hours a day with teachers. If they did, I'd know it. Moms do it. Dads do it. Beagles do it (sometimes so bad that your eyes burn and your lungs might try to escape by jumping out your mouth).
Even I do it. One time I had a fart that lasted so long, that around the midde of the fart I was thinking back to when the fart began.
Anyway, I was thinking about teachers and their intestinal gas today in school and that may have prevented me from learning anything. Maybe the teachers just need to try harder. (To teach me thing, that is. Not just to cut one.)
Seriously though, it's hard for me to blame teachers. It's probably pretty tough to stand up in front of us normal human beings and try to convince us that the equator is interesting, or the clothes that the people in Wheretheheckistan wear are beautiful. (Fashion in other countries sometimes appear to based on one person daring another person to wear something in public.)
Fortunately, I do have one teacher who I always like: Miss Anderson, my art teacher. She's my BFT, which is like a BFF but it's for teachers. She is pretty enough to be a waitress, and she notices important things like when I create my own private glitter blends. (Currently, I'm using a secret mixture of gold, red and magenta. It's pretty much magnificent.)