wicked dreams

this morning, around 3 a.m. -- i'm 27 years old and i walk into my fifth grade classroom. instead of a sour mrs. taylor at the desk, however, is a cartoon version of my high school spanish teacher standing at the board. he's about 3 feet tall. for real. he is.

i introduce myself, hand him a pink slip of paper, and nervously move my notebook from one arm to the other. he raises a carefully balanced conductor's baton and aims it roughly at the back of the classroom. i expect this because, duh, i'm a W.

"please sit next to madonna," he says with a song, still pointing.

"ok." i make my way through three rows of empty desks and finally see my fellow classmates. i turn back around. "um, which one?"