The ninth grade

Because of something I found out yesterday via somewhat sneaky channels that I can't share with you ("sneaky" doesn't make me look good, does it... keep reading, and then judge) but that made me feel like dirt because I am a selfish pig who doesn't think about what other people really mean when they're all vague and cryptic and shit, I started thinking about the ninth grade today, which means, I started writing about the ninth grade today.

"The ninth grade" is a topic rife with challenges. Writing about the ninth grade led me down a path best left unexplored for now, or if explored, than at least, unpublished here.

However, out of all the words I wrote, I will share the following, because it made me feel nice, and there's nothing wrong with that, now is there.

Enjoy.

"Piccolo requires self-confidence, a willingness to be heard, to be a little obnoxious, an ear for playing in tune. I already knew, technically how to play the notes, but I needed to grow the attitude, develop the ear. I could be shy and quietly boy-crazy (obsessively boy-crazy; scary obsessively boy-crazy), but I needed to learn to punch it when I had to punch it. Who wants a mousy piccolo player? Nobody. Strong, but sweet when necessary: that's how the piccolo should be played. It was a good time to learn these particular lessons, though I have to admit that some of it took many, many years to sink in. Or maybe I'm still waiting for it to sink in.

My tutor in the ninth grade was an older girl named Deb. Deb didn't guide by way of criticism or abuse; I learned mostly by watching and listening to her example. She was good, and funny, she played in tune, and, best of all, she was encouraging. We became friends, and I became a piccolo player."

Thanks, Deb.