Reason eight gajillion why I want to teach

I've been reading all these books published in the 1950s and 60s for a paper on how, while academics were all discussing the finer points of managing an integrated classroom, the south had a lot of trouble with, y'know, the basic desegregation part of an integrated classroom. And in a book called The Teacher and Integration, I came across the following passage:

Teachers handle the use of bad language in various ways. Jimmy, in the kindergarten, was playing with a toy. Suddenly he ripped out an oath, "You blank......."

The teacher, hearing it, said, "Jimmy, what does that mean?"

The child looked up and, smiling sweetly, said, "It means the car won't start."

Oh. Jimmy, you're probably my grandfather's age by now, but just so you know, I love you.

SPN ficlet and accompanying rant-let

untitled. John, pre-series, originally posted as a response to onelittlesleep's post here.

( John loves running through the summer. )

Oh, for crying out loud, it seems like all I can do is write and write and write, stories and poems and fic and in my notebook and on the backs of receipts at work and on my hands and through the cloud of my exhaled breath.

It's this constant outpouring, and I'm not sure it's okay, not sure I trust myself to stop without running into a wall. Like I'm headed downhill without brakes and wow it's cool to have this much wind in my hair but what happens when I get to the bottom?

Also: it's precluding everything else I have to do. Like editing my paper or reading or eating or sleeping or showering and yeah.