Another Slope-Intercept Blog Post

Do your homework, she told me. No, I said. And to be honest my production is negatively impacted by pressure. So I suggest you phrase your command in another way. My step-mom looked at me askance. Yes, that's the best word to describe her look. And she said, Well I'm just interested in results. Yeah, I said. But you won't get great RESULTS from me unless you start handling this differently. You see, I continued, humans are complex beings and aren't easily motivated by trite commands. Not even trying to get into college or get a job is enough to motivate me at the moment when I look at this x-y axis. I just don't give a fuck about any of it. Well that's not my problem, she said. Well, it kind of is if you want me to be a successful adult, I said. But the truth is, I expect too much of you. I need to realize that this is the best motivation you can offer. That triggered my step-mom and she went to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I saw her staring out the kitchen window like she liked to do when she was thinking about something really hard. Then I did something. Instead of chasing a reason to do my homework I sat down on the dining room floor and looked around. I noticed the mahogany table with it's squeaky smooth tabletop and the china set that was never used. I saw the silver glint of the cutlery and smelled the fake potted plants, like musty old books. I could still faintly taste the cinnamon roll from lunch that had a slight tinge of Colgate aftertaste. I'd brushed my teeth, obviously... you could've divined that. God, why do I talk like a college professor as a teenager. Slope-intercept, I read. Slope-intercept form. Nah, I don't give a fuck about this. I stood up and stretched and felt a tinge of sadness at the thought of letting my nice Math teacher down. I thought of how Cindy would boast about how she got an A+ on the assignment, but I didn't want to compete with future-17 kid-having-stay-at-home-mom Cindy. She'd be wifed up by her high school sweetheart before the post-prom hangover. Probably pregnant. Was I jealous? Nah. Just unmotivated. St. Lucy's private school could suck it. My step-mom came into the dining room with plastic cutlery and a metal plate with a mouth-watering grilled cheese and a bowl of tomato soup crammed together. The tomato soup had a basil leaf on top. I devoured it while she sat across from me at the table. 

I know you don't want to do your homework, she said. I know I didn't when I was your age. Mom, I interrupted, I just want to point out that this is a great start. Empathy is good. Okay, said my step-mom, but I think this is just your stage in life right now. When I was your age—she stopped herself. This is hard, huh, mom. Yeah, she said, glaring a bit. She stared at me a little longer before continuing, I think you got this. I trust you can accomplish anything you set your mind to. Also I support you if you don't. If you'd rather not go to school anymore, I'll stop paying tuition tomorrow and let you go do whatever. But you can't expect me to allow that past age 18. Once you're 18, you'd better have your own situation figured out. I nodded my head, eyes squinted. I liked this. Weirdly, it motivated me. I sat down and did my homework after wiping some crumbs off my shirt. Y, after all, does equal mx plus b. And then I curled up with my step-mom and the cat on the couch to watch That's So Raymond. I could manage this. This is simply where I'm at, I thought. And that's okay.