I took ballet as a kid and didn’t much care for it. Had I been more interested, I probably could have been pretty good; as it was, I was just good enough for my mom to keep me in it for eleven years. I had one teacher who made me cry every single class. I didn’t much care for her, either. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve thought about her and contemplated how irritating she must have found me to be. It occurred to me earlier today that, perhaps, she was mean to me because she thought I could be a great dancer if I just tried a little harder. Then I realized that we’re not living in a Disney movie and there was no ballet teacher who was hard on me during my formative years because, dammit, she believed in me. She just plain didn’t like me. That whore.