Dear Moody Tween,
Fourth grade is a bitch.
While WE both know that YOU already know EVERYTHING there is to know about Native American rites of passage, your poor, misguided teacher wants proof. Proof that can only be gotten by turning on the computer and performing an internet search. (Pro tip: crying and dramatically saying that you don't have "time for dinner" while you type in search terms with leaden fingers is definitely a proactive approach to Getting Shit Done. Bonus points for finding a website with 20 links, clicking on one, and then washing your hands of the entire site because "it's useless." Bonus BONUS points if you can express your displeasure with your miserable lot in life by simultaneously rolling your eyes and saying "blah-dee blah-dee blah.")
I just want you to know how very sorry I am that you have a BOOK REPORT that requires RESEARCH. I mean, people have DIED doing book reports. In fourth grade, it's not enough to have simply read the book. Oh, no--your teacher wants you to WRITE about it. She wants you to cite EXAMPLES and demonstrate BACKGROUND KNOWLEDGE. Text support is one of life's major injustices. I mean, GOD, isn't that child abuse?
I'm not sure I ever told you this, but when in was in fourth grade, I had to go to the library and look in a card catalog and find a book and read it to get information. I had to take notes with a pencil I sharpened without an electric sharpener. It's true--the Dark Ages were a difficult time to be a child. I barely survived.
I really admire your commitment to suffering. If it was MY book report, I'd do a small portion every day until I finished it. I admit my approach lacks flair, though--unlike your approach, which will probably win you that Oscar this year. Working while you're crying is difficult, and I'm sure your teacher will take pity on you when she reads your damp, tear-stained book report that you wrote all in one day, without taking a break, for no reason at all. You're practically a hero.
I know I've ruined your life by making you do your work correctly, but that 'A' is really going to mean something. Even if it doesn't, just think of the fantastic tales of woe you'll have for your future memoirs. You're probably going to be filthy rich--seriously, who doesn't love a heartbreaking tale of first-world suffering? Your book is sure to sell even more copies than the eleventy-billion copies of "Eat, Pray, Love," sold by one Ms. Elizabeth Gilbert, who is the queen of privileged anguish.
Every queen needs a king, right? You're the man.
Love,
Your Evil Mother
