Jack and the Beanstalk (without the Jack, and possibly without the beanstalk.)

We are growing plants in lasagne-trays in biology.

We had to divide into groups of 8, which didn't sound like such an ardous task until the back group realized we were only 7. Anyway, no one else wanted to join our group because our group consisted of 7 cellphone-wielding alcoholics, including the resident stoner, someone with a prison record, one unstable partygoer, the insane borderline adult, a pseudo-goth, someone really apathetic and one part-time student -- the worst recipe for success available. The part-time student was really a last resort.

"Oi, that group over there, you have to have 8 people before I'll give you the stuff. Otherwise you'll get no marks."

"Shit, how many people are in our group?"

"Six, if you count him."

"We still need another two..."

"Quick, who's absent?!"

"Tjad...and that scary girl from Botswana -"

"Okay, Tjad's in our group. He's never here anyway; we don't even need to tell him what's going on."

(He did, however, get his revenge several days later when he finally pitched up:

"Tjad, stop moving our radish shoots into the upperclass-motherfuckers' tray!"

"I refuse. It looks so empty..."

"But...why? You're in our group!"

"...I am?")


So, the biology teacher, who really doesn't like us as a result of that one time when we laughed pointedly at his sock tan, refused to give us seeds or a lasagne until we had 8 members. We couldn't find any. Eventually the general consensus was, "Fuck it, we'll bring our own fucking beans, and our own damn lasagne tray."

This adamance lasted until two more people decided to migrate to our group. To tell the truth, we tackled this assignment with the same fervent, unwavering enthusiasm we would a colonoscopy. It was heartening when a few days later our tray was the fastest to grow though, and the straight-A-overachiever-bourgeoise-motherfuckers with their damn upper-class haircuts group had a tray that was so waterlogged their beans rotted.

In other news, I officially sound like a self-help book. I believe I have finally merged with my well-worn copy of Toxic Parents to become one big walking, life-changing cliche. I can't help it. It worked.