So a piece of tile fell down in my classroom today, from the ceiling, though it hit no one. This is not a good sign, Chicken Little.

I am beginning to think I want to stick with this teaching thing long enough to become a principal. Not that I have the charisma or the inches, but it's a start, I think. I forget how young I am. But my youth is the youth of opportunity, not the agedness of 15, which one of my students today reached, and I find it difficult to remember where I was at 15, though I think that year I wrote the first of my letters-to-self on my birthday that year--I'd just moved from the city where I'd grown up into a new bujii-Jew neighborhood of strangers and fucks. I felt completely undercut and was severely alienated from the parents whom I blamed for my dislocation, and so devoted myself to doing well in school and being an alienated little Chinaman. And staring at whitebois. Ugh. This was also the beginning of the downhill slide in my interest in my physique, abandoning the smooth abs of early high school into the current shrinking gut. A shame, all that. But what can one do, really?