When I was eight, I was in a summer dance class for the hell of it. We once had a teacher, named Kirby. She was a woman, though you couldn't tell from looking at her, and she constantly prevented me from doing fun activities because i was "too emotional". Which I was, but I kept it in good check so she was just being a bitch.
Anyway, she was trying to teach us to do this thing in ballet where you slide the front part of you foot on top of your other foot. She made us do this for about an hour. I complained that my feet hurt, particularly the one that I was sliding. She told me I was being dramatic. Infuriated, i removed my shoe to find that half of my sock had been stained red. Turns out the constant friction of my toes rubbing against eachother somehow formed a blister that, when burst, bled like crazy.
Somehow, I don't remember how, she told me I was a crybaby, though I wasn't crying and It wasn't my fault i was bleeding. The other girls experienced similar discomfort a few minutes later and quit on Kirby, which was somehow my fault too.
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