On writing. (Not the Stephen King book.)

Mum, after parent-teacher interviews: Your English teacher was talking about that story you wrote. He said that you write better than he can.
Me: Mm. I enunciate better than he can, too.
Mum: *strangled chuckle*
Me: ... Am I going to Hell for that?

Yes, tonight was the Dreaded PT Interviews. Dun dun dun DUUUUN, and stuff. I had to go along with her, to remind her who was teaching us what. Once I told her the names of everyone I beat it into the hallway and found a wall to lean against. (I'm good with the leaning.) I had my headphones on, listening to this mix CD I'd made- NIN, Loretta Lynn, Rufus Wainwright, the Velvet Underground, and Butterfly Boucher all on the same disc, which felt sort of sacrilegious but also sort of good, especially when Instant Pleasure started playing and I got to glory in the fact that I was listening to a song about meaningless gay sex in the midst of a bunch of soccer moms and their apathetic kidlets. (Whew, run-on sentence.)
At that point my English teacher Mr. I-Don't-Get-Your-Ferris-Bueller-References Power found me leaning and told me that he'd read my short story- about fucking time, dude, it's been over a month since we passed them in, I thought but did not say, because to be fair it's not ENTIRELY his fault he left them in Cape Breton during vacation.
He told me that (and I quote) "You don't find that level of quality at university level."
You know, even though (or maybe because) I'm a virgin, I think that ego boosts like that HAVE to be way fucking better than sex.