I have been noticing how those preppy, smooth talking/walking Dalton boys seem to be getting a lot of asks.
Is it because they are in a suit? Because you know…
I look much more suave in one than them.
I am Sue Sylvester and I own you all. Send me asks.
Have you ever woke up one day and suddenly had an epiphany, wondering where your life has gone?
Nah, Me neither.
I mean, here I am, several time cheerleading coach champion and my only regret is that I didn’t scrub my pool tiles with that sponge bob square pants lookalikes massive forehead.
I am at the point in my life however, where I want something to continue on after the star that is Coach Sue Sylvester departs this land of purgatory and ascends into an even higher form of Godliness. I want to gift the world with more than my memories but with a special part of me.
If God did so then why can’t I?
In about eight months time, I am to bestow unto this most indebted and auspicious world, the fruit of my loins, the air from my lungs, their very own Sylvester offspring, grown from the most perfect and valuable genes that both I and money have to offer.
Am I excited? Mainly nauseous but then it is hard to differentiate whether that is from the little foetus or simply from the appalling choreography presented by my Cheerleading Squad. Honestly, not even the temptation of strapping one of them to the side of a rocket and launching it into space with them screaming cheers could save this diabolical excuse for a performance from bombing hard into the ground.
On the bright side (Because I must always be optimistic as that is the type of wonderful teacher that I am) I think my cheerleaders have found the cure for Insomnia and therefore at the very least I can sell them off to some scientific laboratory to become test subjects. I hope it will be as painful as the torture they have inflicted on me the past few weeks with their dancing efforts that have been quite frankly an eyesore.
Back to my mini-foetus…
It seems the child in my stomach that is hardly old enough to be considered a blob is already taking after its mother. I am sure I felt it doing some serious gymnastics the other night. Then again… I do think that curry I had might have been a little dodgy.
I have been trying to imagine whether they will be a girl or a boy, and there is also the slight concern that they will end up with the same condition that my sister had. I know I would never abandon my child if that were the case but of course it raises unease and anxiety within me, feelings that don’t often occur at all with Sue Sylvester.
But what if…
I know how to cope for the most part, I always did with my sister but a little baby is different. What is more, I will have to go through the same despair I felt with Jean, knowing that their life will be radically shortened. If they are lucky enough to outlive me, who would take care of them then? There is no father after all, no one discernable who I could consider family, it is going to be just the two of us.
Still, best not to linger on the what if’s and only deal with the certainties, correct?
The certainty is that I am having a child. A baby. I am going to be a mother.
Now there is only one other puzzlement.
What should I call them?
I was thinking Jean…
I might have to think on this though.
Write to you again soon,
Becky is my favourite cheerio.
Fabray let me down by getting herself impregnated, Inflata-float got implants AND caused that completely crass and untrue blotch on my campaign by coming out as a lesbian in the midst of my career and Brittany wouldn’t take one for the team and allow herself to be fired out of a cannon.
Honestly, Becky is the only one who is yet to let me down.
Get out of your pits and ask me some questions!
If I was on broadway I would have had to share the Limelight. Sue Sylvester is a one woman show. I soon realised that a) there were too many people like Will Schuester prancing about like fairies in that career and b) I was far too good to settle for waving a flower in the background or imitating some half hearted heroine.
There is after all, only one Sue Sylvester. They should make a show about me. The day they do that I will be more than happy to play myself… for an extensive fee of course.
The short and somewhat possibly disappointing answer for you pervy Anon, is no. The only day William Schuester will every even remotely ‘turn me on’ is when I see him scraped into the very core of the Earth, being prodded by annoying pixie imps whilst being violated by Satan himself. When his precious Glee club is in wrack and ruin, and his life is no longer worth living, then maybe I will be vaguely turned on.
Finally Christmas day has come and gone. Do not mistake my discernment for Christmas day with my particular gratification for receiving well warranted gifts. Perish the thought of Sue Sylvester actually refusing the tawdry, inconsiderate gifts of well meaning but frankly misguided peasants that I am forced to fraternise with on a regular basis. Journal, What must I have done in a previous life to have earned me the unfortunate circumstances of being surrounded by complete dolts such as that man whose hair is reminiscent of a scourer… William Schuester?
I can always be relied on to be completely honest with you can’t I journal? This Christmas left me hollow. I thought the gift of giving something back to people who have very little was supposed to be rewarding? What accolade or form of remuneration did I get other than the urgent need to incessantly wash myself every hour on the hour since the moment I entered the shelter? I am sure that about 99 percent of them had rabies and the one percent that didn’t was me and maybe a rat I saw running through the kitchens. Not to mention that the damned Glee Club now harbours the misguided assumption that I actually LIKE them because they decided to help out. Really? I mean I thought it was Porcelains father who had got the Baboon heart transplant (Though admittedly I do not mind Porcelain so much). The whole glee club are like the spare parts that God had left over that he just didn’t know what to do with. He figured ‘waste not want not’ and decided to create them. That’s why they turned into such physical and mental rejects… or maybe I am wrong and it might be cross contamination in the form of incest. Hey, maybe if I donate a couple of brain cells to that pity party, could it be considered as me being a good humanitarian? God knows the world would be better with more Sue Sylvester’s around. Still, enough about them, back to myself…
This is the first Christmas without my sister Jean. It is the holidays so I have no Cheerleading Squad to ‘pep’, no Glee Club to seek and destroy, no Figgins to mentally wear down and black mail, and certainly no Will Schuester to visualise drowning in a mug of his own coffee/spit or the comfort of imagining him getting his head slammed in a grand piano. I don’t get to verbally beat him down to his face and have had therefore had to settle for little black envelopes with pieced together letters sent to his house like in a strange English Program called Eastenders I managed to catch on the TV over the Christmas period.
Yes. I was that bored I actually resorted to tacky English television.
Instead I am left with the depressing knowledge that whilst I enjoy my own company far more than anyone else’s, I will never get to see my sister open another present. I will never have the opportunity to receive another handmade card (the past of which I definitely haven’t kept in the top right hand side of my wardrobe) and I won’t get to watch her face light up again as we watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and exchange the one present I actually receive at Christmas.
When I become President or Ruler of the world, the first thing I am going to do Journal is ban Christmas!
Have to go, I have a live pig, hog tied to a spit out in the back garden ready to roast. And no, I am not talking of the farm variety.
Getting naked as I type.
Give me QUESTIONS iin the meantime.
Let me give you some friendly advice, do not for the love of all that is holy look in a mirror whilst you are naked. You are that disturbingly grotesque to look at that the you have a high chance…
Oookay. Do I know you? Have we met? Because I don’t see a reason to why you should insult me, especially not when I am very goodlooking, thankyouverymuch.
I don’t believe you have been lucky enough to meet me yet. As for insults, that would require me to say something untrue. As it happens, all I did was state a fact.
Well my little leeches, I am afraid this is all the knowledge you will be sucking out of me tonight. If you are desperate for my intelligence and company then ask me some questions. If you are lucky, I might just feel charitable enough to answer them tomorrow.
Try not to cry too hard into your soggy Christmas dinners Kiddies.
Getting naked as I type.
Give me QUESTIONS iin the meantime.
Let me give you some friendly advice, do not for the love of all that is holy look in a mirror whilst you are naked. You are that disturbingly grotesque to look at that the you have a high chance of causing Retinitis Pigmentosa (In lamens terms for the incurably unintelligent people. IT IS WHERE YOU CAN GO BLIND). I know, I know, I thought it was impossible that ugliness could cause this too but then I saw you… what’s more, I saw you dancing… give it up.
Miss is not a word in her vocabulary. Sue Sylvester does not miss anything but the deliciously minty fresh smell of her own breath and the delicate tinkling of those warm vowels and consonants when she is not talking.
Furthermore he/she who must not be named, Our dear porcelain might have attended Dalton Academy but he is still property of Sue Sylvester since he showed that pasty, chipmunk face on the halls of McKinley High, not to mention when he signed his life over to be part of the prestigious Cheer leading Squad. That was the smartest decision he ever made.