![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I think I sprained something. In my head.
New rule. God needs to take a memo or something: Nobody who looks like that should be allowed to read minds. It's entirely not fair. And then the whole class was about mental focus and meditation and things--I'm probably the poster child for lack of focus. Not being focused is sort of how I do the whole multiple dupes thing. So right now I guess I'm an open book to telepaths (and there's whole chapters in there I think I probably did the mental equivalent of putting up billboards about and I'm just gonna go crawl off and die, now.) Maybe it'll work better if I don't have any dupes running around during that class, I dunno. In short, ow.
And then there was the hand-to-hand self-defense class, which was a whole 'nother world of no fun. The whole chrome basement deal was pretty nifty, but I started to get really nervous when I saw how many pads we had to put on, and then class started, and . . .
OK, somebody tell me how when it's everybody else's turn it just looks like they're getting a couple of practice punches to try and duck, but when it's my turn it feels like getting locked in a small room with a pissed-off Samurai Jack for an hour? Needless to say I suck at not getting hit. At least between the padding and the . . . forcefield, or something, Mr. Logan said they'd set up . . . I didn't dupe. Small mercies.
And then he said I was supposed to try and attack him. Man, the last time I threw a punch at somebody I was six, and Dad grounded me for a week. And I can't punch people now, it causes embarrassing public incidents. So that's why I wasn't hitting hard enough or trying hard enough to connect or whatever the heck else I was doing wrong that I didn't catch the guy telling me about because I already know I suck at fighting, I don't see what getting told I do is gonna help. And I guess I don't think being bad at fighting is a bad thing. Dad always says the smart man figures out another way to solve his problems.
So I guess I pretty much suck at the mutant classes, like I figured I was going to. Sorry, Kitty. Maybe things'll be better tomorrow.
Now, where's that ice cream . . .
New rule. God needs to take a memo or something: Nobody who looks like that should be allowed to read minds. It's entirely not fair. And then the whole class was about mental focus and meditation and things--I'm probably the poster child for lack of focus. Not being focused is sort of how I do the whole multiple dupes thing. So right now I guess I'm an open book to telepaths (and there's whole chapters in there I think I probably did the mental equivalent of putting up billboards about and I'm just gonna go crawl off and die, now.) Maybe it'll work better if I don't have any dupes running around during that class, I dunno. In short, ow.
And then there was the hand-to-hand self-defense class, which was a whole 'nother world of no fun. The whole chrome basement deal was pretty nifty, but I started to get really nervous when I saw how many pads we had to put on, and then class started, and . . .
OK, somebody tell me how when it's everybody else's turn it just looks like they're getting a couple of practice punches to try and duck, but when it's my turn it feels like getting locked in a small room with a pissed-off Samurai Jack for an hour? Needless to say I suck at not getting hit. At least between the padding and the . . . forcefield, or something, Mr. Logan said they'd set up . . . I didn't dupe. Small mercies.
And then he said I was supposed to try and attack him. Man, the last time I threw a punch at somebody I was six, and Dad grounded me for a week. And I can't punch people now, it causes embarrassing public incidents. So that's why I wasn't hitting hard enough or trying hard enough to connect or whatever the heck else I was doing wrong that I didn't catch the guy telling me about because I already know I suck at fighting, I don't see what getting told I do is gonna help. And I guess I don't think being bad at fighting is a bad thing. Dad always says the smart man figures out another way to solve his problems.
So I guess I pretty much suck at the mutant classes, like I figured I was going to. Sorry, Kitty. Maybe things'll be better tomorrow.
Now, where's that ice cream . . .
