because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Sunday, 13 June 2010

All You Need Is Love (and a bit of money).

Internet, you know I would have your babies if I could, don't you? That even when I don't write to you, I'm thinking of you. You are on mind, you infiltrate my soul, you are my raison d'etre and I promise you- when I'm on the road I don't even THINK about putting it about with anybody else. I might not have been about much this week, but please. Forgive me. I'll make it up to you. Take down your pants and give me three minutes of your time.

So. I've had two weeks in Sanremo and duuuuuuuude. It really is a good job my luggage allowance with Ryanair (thoughts on a new name: SHITAIR) didn't allow for me to pack my dignity.

I've had many thoughts this past two weeks. Mainly that I've spent twenty-four years being a dick, and now I have a job THAT PAYS ME TO DO IT. In Italy. With cute boys and funny girls. I've not mentioned it to my boss or anything, but even without the paycheck I'd show up. Keep that to yourselves though, eh? I do need something to keep me in Marlboro's.

My days looked like this: get up in fancy hotel, eat fancy hotel breakfast, make 150 people stand in a circle and repeat whatever I say whilst shaking their bums and sticking out their tongues and standing on one foot all in the name of education, say some things about how teaching English changes lives, have a fag, laugh so hard I pee just a little, rap an acapella Gangster's Paradise to a room full of stranger's in exchange for beer (again) and then fall asleep exhausted for five hours before doing it all again tomorrow. Conclusion? LIKE.

I was even given a little bit of ACTUAL RESPONSIBILITY in my second week of orientations, and was able to lead a workshop with my friend Ben. We used song to illustrate effective ways of teaching specific grammar structures, and for your viewing pleasure here we are leading a rousing rendition of All You Need Is Love, all in the name of past participles. It's lucky that I suffer from self-esteem high enough to make my tone-deaf nature a non-issue, don't you think? Oh- AND WATCH OUT FOR MY HILARIOUS JOKE. I love being a plonker for an audience only to be met with blank stares.



Incidentally, I've spent two weeks with sore muscles. When I saw this video it all made sense. Look at the way I swing my arms. I'm practically creating a tsunami with my own body! AND I'M SAT DOWN! Get me stood up and my booty shaking to a self-made rap and PLEASE. Lactic-acid central.

In short. An awesome two weeks. Next: Milan. To teach six year olds. The same six year olds that most probably don't even know how to wipe their own arses and most certainly don't know how to correctly use the third conditional within the context of a past tense song.

I'll let you know how I get on.
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