school

Dyscalculia: The Reason I Can’t Do Math

Well, I figured it out, folks.

After countless years of striving to perform well in math–that sounds weird for some reason–and busting my ass studying for tests that I end up failing the next day, despite my being an annoying optimist throughout that time, I have discovered my problem–

I have Dyslexia–shit, I mean Dyscalcium.

No!

I have Dyscalculia, which I thought was some fresh way of labeling dunces who can’t make it to Calculus without passing College Algebra. Sure described me well, eh-heh…cough.

Apparently, Calcul–some-random-crap affects a person’s ability to comprehend math equations, perhaps even the ability to recall certain formulas after the person has studied them time and time again. It also prevents them from understanding advanced concepts–they cannot get past the introduction stage.

So, say I write out the Quadratic Formula. I might be able to remember it.

But what if I write out the Hyperbola formula, fifteen times?

Still won’t be able to get it; and this is not only the Calcity-Calc disability, but a symptom of ADHD and math anxiety: not the fear that math mafia gangsters will come steal your abacus–instead, it is becoming uncontrollably nervous before a math test out of fear of, dare I say it, performance issues.

Sound like any of you people?

I had no idea of it until this day. It would have been splendid news six years ago, but, alas, the world of science is slower than molasses–I mean, how long did it take ’em to figure out what molasses was, anyway? I coulda been a better math student is all I’m saying; granted, I’m pretty much done with math for-ever, except for when I have to pay a tip and pay for gas and calculate taxes and pay my bills and…

Aaugh!

Math is EVERYWHERE! There is NOWHERE I can hide!

Somebody, shield me with a Dickens novel! No, not A Christmas Carol, it’s too small!

Is that–

Oh, thank God, I thought you were handing me–

A MATH BOOK?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

High School Is Silly, Really.

I just finished my last day of high school. Well, aren’t any of you going to congratulate me? Where the hell is my cake? Or the graduation money that I specifically wrote in the invitation for each of you to bring? What a bunch of lazy bums. I can’t count on anyone, can I?

It’s funny. I started this blog before senior year, and I am still writing on it after senior year has ended; although–I am sure–there are some of you out there who wish I would have stopped this blog a while ago. Been a lot of changes to it since June, not all of them the best decisions I’ve made for this blog, but, you gotta give a guy props, right?

See, when I was sitting in my math class today, with the last high school final I will ever have to take, I thought about how silly high school is, and how when you get out into the real world, it is an insignificant part of your life. I know, it seems like four years would be memorable until you’re fifty, but, considering I’m getting up in my age at eighteen, I have a seasoned view of the world.

You look at the social class system in any high school, and you realize it could not have happened any other way. Put a bunch of hormonally charged teenagers under one roof, with authority figures they disrespect, making no one special-er than the other person, what else is gonna happen? They’re going to form cliques to make sense of the craziness of their school work, like those five page math homework assignments, or an essay due by Friday, assigned on Thursday.

People make it seem so damned important, when, honestly, it’s like being King of Shit Mountain. Sure, you have your toilet paper rolls, but none of that is going to wipe off the stuff on your shoes–it’s permanent, dude. And you stay up there long enough, the fumes’ll get to ya. Trust me, I–actually, I don’t know. I try to steer clear of the likes of Shit Mountain and Piss Lake, since, you know, they’re bad for my hygiene.

Anyways, on to college and a whole bunch of new experiences and yay-college-is-so-fun!

Geez, I hope college isn’t just a revamped high school…yikes.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Does This Post Make You Laugh Out Loud?

There is something to be said about a sense of humor, specifically when it is appropriate versus when it is not. Who determines that? I don’t know, the fuzz? No, likely not the fuzz;  no, it’s those guys and girls who don’t like jokes.

But who doesn’t like jokes, you ask.

Who knows? We’re not talking about those people today. They can go back to their boring old statistical books and the manual of HOW TO KEEP ONESELF FROM UTTERING A CHUCKLE. Who’s it by? Oh, Anonymous. I can see why. Go ahead and put the pitchforks and the mob signs away, guys.

I like to think I have a sense of humor. Now, like all sense-of-humorists, I have my greatest hits and my burn outs; see, if I wanted to be most of the hair bands in the eighties, I’d have more of the latter than the former. But, I am not Cinderella, or her Twister Sister.

Like all good things, sometimes too much can be deadly. How do I mean? I can easily get away from myself, not like, “ewwww, get me away from me! He’s so disgusting and unfunny!” I mean losing sight of a stopping point and exhausting myself to the point where, when I’m laughing at my own jokes–what a doofus–I almost collapse out of tiredness.

Mostly it occurs at home–geez, I can a hear a British announcer for the Discovery Channel narrating that sentence–and least of all at school. I like to think I could spin a few doozies, hit a few home runs, squirt a few patties with ketchup, fill some cups with milk…how about I stop with that analogy? Yeah? Okay.

I must admit though, whenever we have a informational video streaming in class, it is a trial to shut my mouth and not say anything that might cause people to bust their guts laughing–just as long as it doesn’t come out the other end. I want get my MST3K on, know what I’m talking ’bout, people?

If you don’t that’s all right. That show was popular before I was born.

At home, of course, I get a few chuckles. I get a fart, too; but I don’t think that’s from me. Most times my family looks at me weird, then they do the “oh-we’ll-laugh-to-make-him-feel-good” bit, and go on back to their work and get onto me for lazing in the armchair in my underwear and skimming through a knock-knock book for ten year olds.

C’mon, you can’t believe that. I am an advanced sense-of-humorist. Who uses knock-knock books when there’s all these yo-mamma pamphlets circulating the corners at my local elementary school?

Yo mamma so hungry, she–

Johnathan Alexander Whitby! Finish coloring your math homework!

Yes ma’am…[in a whisper] she eats the stick off a corn dog.

Poor Jonathan Alexander Whitby, cursed with a terrible name created by mua.

It could have been worse. It could have been–

Think daily,

A Southpaw