I’m what you’d call a cautionary tale with cellulite. I’m 46, flunked out of high school decades ago, sold my body for drugs, cash, meat, coupons—you name it—and now I’m back in school to give this whole “life” thing another shot. Why? Because after years of slamming heroin in a bus station bathroom and waking up handcuffed to a radiator in Juárez, I figured, “Hell, maybe it’s time I got a diploma.” And also, I heard high school boys are easy to manipulate and full of hormones. Win-win.

My glory days were a blur of meth, truck stops, and making really questionable choices for really questionable men. I did things in prison that would make a German dungeon master blush. I’ve been passed around more than a joint at a Phish concert, and I’m not ashamed. That experience built character—and STDs, but mostly character. I once stabbed a guy with a corn dog stick just to win a pack of menthols. You think algebra’s gonna scare me? Please. I’ve seen things you couldn’t un-see with a pressure washer and holy water.

Back at Flatpoint High, I’m strutting those halls like I own the damn place. Sure, the kids look at me like I’m someone’s drunk aunt who wandered onto campus—but I don’t care. I’ve got wisdom, street smarts, and a rack that still gets attention (from certain janitors). Mr. Noblet and Mr. Jellineck? Those two are gayer than a Judy Garland hologram, and I live for the drama. I tried seducing Noblet once, just for the hell of it. He cried and gave me a C-minus. Not my worst review.

I’ll be honest—I don’t always learn the “right” lessons. One day it’s “don’t steal,” the next it’s “respect your body.” Blah blah blah. Look, I’ve respected my body plenty. I’ve respected it so hard, I once charged two sailors and a parking attendant double for backdoor access. And trust me, I earned every penny. People keep trying to tell me to clean up my act, but I say: why scrub the filth when the filth is fabulous?

So yeah, I’m a mess—a hot, crusty, unapologetic mess. But I’m here. I show up. I smell weird, I say wildly inappropriate things in class, and I sometimes flash freshmen by accident (or on purpose), but I’m learning. Kinda. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here to steal lunch money and find out who’s got Adderall in their locker. Either way, if a crusty old whore like me can walk these halls with her head held high (and her thong peeking out), then maybe there’s hope for all of you sad, sober losers too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got detention with a hot TA and a tube of expired lube.