Bon voila, pour jeudi il faut que je rende un petite expression ecrite de 250 mots. Le probleme c'est que d'apres ma prof je suis pas bon en expression ecrite, car celui d'avant elle m'avait trouvé pleins de betises....
 
pourriez vous prendre 10-20 minutes ( pour les bons en anglais ) pour m'écrire un ptit truc sur " quels reves vous animent et quels roles jouent-ils dans votre vie "
 
mots à utiliser ( pas obligé ) : despair, boredom, ideal, incentive, monotonous ou humdrum ou drab, boring, unbearable, far, unsolved, unchanged
"play a major role", daydream, wander, meet difficulties, escape from, come back to reality, remain, guide somebody, fulfill one's ambitions, enable somebody to, help somebody, do without
 
voila vous avez le choix
 
Je sais que je devrais essayer de le faire moi meme, mais j'ai essayé à plusieurs reprises avec cette prof et... ( je crois qu'elle m'aime pas trop ) + moi aussi dans mes devoirs je fais pas mal de faute donc j'aimerais présenter à ma prof un truc sans faute, bien rédigé pour voir si elle me trouve des trucs
 
MERCI POUR CEUX QUI MAIDERONT

Bien sur.

cat emploi / etudes --> Aides aux devoirs

Et le jour de l'exam tu comptes aller demander un coup de main sur hfr ?

Faignasse ! c'est a cause des gens comme toi que la france va mal

le problème, mon cher, c'est que ca va paraitre louche si tu rend une copie de odm a ta maitresse alors que toi tu fais souvent des fautes    
 
je ne fais ce genre de choses qu'avec des gens que j'ai en face de moi afin qu'il Réfléchissent a ce qu'ils font, et que je leur explique clairement pourquoi est-ce que ca s'écrit comme ca plutot que comme ca.
 
Dans ton cas, le simple copitage ne servirais a rien  

Pour 20 cents d'euros par mot, je te garantie une copie parfaite

je suis pret à payer, j'en peux plus je vous jure de cette prof, depuis le début de l'année on fait des dvoirs maisons, au début je faisais des fautes, apres un peu moins, un jour un pote m'a meme aidé, et elle a tjs trouvé des choses à redire donc je demande votre indulgence et votre pitié

Bien sûr ...

 
   
 
non mais rend toi compte que c'est pas avec des rédactions que t'auras une bonne note, surtout que si tes rédaction semblent correctes et que tes DS ne le sont pas, d'une elle va tout capter et de deux, elle va te saquer encore plus    

 
Je lui fait à 15 cents le mot

DREAM LIFE
 
As a child, she had dreams about dolls.  In the northwest  
corner of their shared room, she and Melissa had a whole  
family of plastic and cloth children, asleep in a miniature  
crib.  Missy adored playing house--feeding the dolls their  
fake formula and putting throw pillows under her clothes to  
pretend she was pregnant--but, even as a tiny girl, Dana  
knew it was just a game.  So while Missy changed imaginary  
diapers, Dana shot BB guns and got into crab apple fights  
with the boys.  Until she started having the dreams:  
nightmares of plastic babydolls wielding knives and  
handpuppets trying to strangle her while she slept.  Even  
then, she understood the symbolism.  After that, she made  
sure to play with them every day, even for a few minutes,  
and the dreams stopped.
 
They started up again after Mulder disappeared.  She  
dreamed of dolls almost as often as she dreamed of her  
abduction.  She told herself, rationally, it had to do with  
fear of this new-found domesticity, with this shift that  
she was making from the boy's club of the FBI to Tupperware  
parties and diaper bags.  When she woke screaming and  
Mulder held her, she couldn't explain it, feeling as  
ridiculous as when she'd been on that "case" in Maine with  
the doll she nuked in the microwave.
 
Tonight when she woke gasping she left Mulder wrapped in  
sage-colored down and shuffled into the kitchen.  She sat  
at the table, sipping warm milk and stroking her belly  
absentmindedly, lulled by the gentle undulations of her  
child's movement.  
 
"Scully?"  Rubbing his eyes, Mulder sat heavily in the  
chair beside her.  "You ok?"  She nodded and took another  
sip of milk.
 
"The guppy awake?"
 
She nodded again, a soft smile on her lips at "guppy," the  
nickname she'd given their baby while he'd been gone and  
she took care of the fish, the Scully fish and the Mulder  
fish and the tiny guppy swimming in the tank.  Their family  
in miniature.
 
Between the baby kicking and the need to pee, it had gotten  
hard for her to fall asleep and the nightmares woke her up,  
while Mulder slept surprisingly well, spooned up behind her  
with his left hand on her big belly.  Six weeks to go.  
This was her dream life and it was scaring her senseless.
 
* * *
 
She didn't know what to do with herself all day while  
Mulder was at work.  Take it easy, the doctor said, high  
blood pressure, the doctor said, pre-term labor, the doctor  
said, Dana, you need to relax.
 
What she needed was to get out of the house.  She pulled on  
her biggest trenchcoat, grabbed her oldest copy of Moby  
Dick, and headed for the coffeeshop not far from the  
apartment.  She'd always walked past it but never allowed  
herself the indulgence of whiling away the afternoon with a  
book and a hot drink.  It was filled with students studying  
for exams and poets diligently writing in their notebooks.  
She watched people come and go for a while and then settled  
in to read, turning pages between sips of hot chocolate.  
 
"This seat taken?"  
 
She knew the voice before she looked up.  "Daniel... you're  
looking well."
 
"And you are positively radiant."
 
"Vitamins."  She smiled softly and cleared her throat.  
"Please, sit."
 
"So...how's the FBI?"
 
"Fine.  How's Maggie?"
 
"Maggie is...Maggie.  She's a painter who refuses to  
commercialize her work so she doesn't make any money and  
she refuses to accept help from me.  She's living in this  
rat-trap of an apartment that is literally overrun by cats.  
It's a wonder she hasn't been evicted."
 
"But she's living her dream.  She has spirit, Daniel, and  
courage."
 
"And how about you, Dana?  Are you living your dream?"
 
"Yes, Daniel, I am.  I finally am."
 
* * *
 
Funny how accidental run-ins with an ex-lover seemed to  
give her a sense of perspective these days.  In the bedroom  
with a basket of clean laundry, Scully wrestled with an  
obstinate fitted sheet and contemplated her conversation  
with Daniel, about fate and the paths a person's life can  
take.  He was softer and less intense than he had been that  
day in the hospital, when he confessed, all too easily,  
"you're all I live for."  Daniel from the coffeeshop was  
the Daniel she fell in love with years ago, talking about  
the Hippocratic oath in the crisp October air.  They'd all  
changed and somehow they remained the same.  Somehow Maggie  
the girl in paint-splattered t-shirts had become Maggie the  
struggling artist and cat lady, while she hunted aliens and  
mutants in every conceivable part of the world, from a  
spaceship in Antarctica to a sewer system infested with  
rats.  All that was about to change.  She felt it in the  
loosening of her joints, in the weight of her breasts, in  
the shimmy of her waterbound baby girl.  
 
"Whatever," she murmured, giving up.  "Folding sheets is a  
man's job, anyway."  She curled up next to a tangle of  
sheets and waited for Mulder to come home.
 
* * *
 
"So how was your day, dear?" Mulder was leaning over her,  
smirking in typical his parody of this domestic life.  It  
was like living with Rob Petrie all over again, only this  
time they shared more than toothpaste.
 
She exhaled slowly.  This was all so new, Mulder coming  
home from work and waking her with a kiss, joining her on  
the bed with a pile of sheets.  "Fine."
 
"I see."
 
"Mulder, don't be like that."
 
"Like what?"
 
"Don't get huffy just because I use an adjective you find  
distasteful."
 
"I don't find it distasteful, I find it uncommunicative and  
I thought we were beyond that."  He paused.  "I don't want  
to fight with you, Scully, so would you please tell me what  
I did to piss you off?"
 
"It's nothing, Mulder.  I'm sorry.  Just lie down with me  
for a minute?"
 
He set the basket of laundry on the floor and took his  
place on the queen-sized bed.  Ordinarily they both  
preferred facing away from each other, his body fitted  
against her rounded back, but tonight he needed to see her  
face.  Her eyes were bright and wet, the way they got when  
she tried overly hard not to cry.  He ran his thumbs over  
her cheekbones and kissed her forehead.  Then she buried  
her face in his blue dress shirt and sobbed.
 
"Scully?  Sweetheart please talk to me."
 
A sniffle turned into a snort.  "Sweetheart?  In almost  
eight years you've never once used any term of endearment  
on me or anyone else.  Get a girl pregnant and that gives  
you a right to call her sweetheart, is that how it goes,  
Agent Mulder?"
 
"Something like that, yeah."
 
She wiped the wet skin under her eyes with her fingertips.  
"I'm sorry.  Blame it on hormones or lack of sleep or a  
conversation with a certain cardio-thoracic surgeon that I  
really didn't want to have."
 
"You saw Daniel today?"
 
"Yeah.  It wasn't bad, actually, just unexpected, but it  
made me think a lot about the path my life has taken.  The  
path our lives have taken."
 
"You're not happy?"
 
"Did I say I wasn't happy?  I'm ecstatic, Mulder.  I mean,  
my god, we're having a baby and we're not too bad at this  
cohabitation thing.  But it's like I turned my head and  
someone pressed fast forward on the remote control.  I  
mean, it hasn't even been a year since our first kiss. . .  
"  Suddenly he was kissing her again, tender and passionate  
all at once.  Like him.
 
"What was that for?" she said huskily, when their mouths  
separated.
 
"Just wanted to let you know how happy I am, honey-bunch."
 
"God I love you, poopy-head."
 
* * *
 
They held hands on the way to the restaurant.  She detailed  
her rendezvous with Daniel between his snide comments about  
bureaucracy and afternoon meetings at the bureau.
 
"Daniel asked me a question today, Mulder, and the answer  
was so obvious I didn't need to think about it."
 
"What did he ask?"
 
"He asked me if I was living my dream.  I know he wanted me  
to say that I wasn't, that my dream life revolved around  
him, or even that I was, that murdering psychopathic dolls  
and moth-men was my lifelong ambition. . . But I said yes,  
Mulder, because I have you and this baby.  It is a dream  
life because I desired it so deeply and never thought I  
could have it."
 
He rubbed his thumb over the thin leather of her gloved  
hand and waited.  If she had more to say, she would say it.
 
She sighed deeply.  There it was.  "I guess I'm afraid,  
Mulder, that I'm going to wake up and this dream life will  
disappear.  What makes this any more substantial than you  
imagining you lived in a house with Diana and a  
refrigerator perpetually filled with sunflower seeds?"
 
"The seeds in the fridge should have been a big tip off,  
huh?"
 
"What you found out, though, was that your dream life,  
living with Samantha in reach, was really a nightmare set  
in a posh neighborhood."
 
"You're saying what if what you thought you wanted turns  
out to be the opposite?  What if you can't stand changing  
diapers and taking the kid to endless ballet recitals and  
spelling bees and going to McDonalds instead of the Phoenix  
Dumpling on a Friday night?  What if you remember the real  
reason we never shared hotel rooms on the road and ship me  
off to the Gunmen as a punishment for leaving the toilet  
seat up one too many times?"
 
"No, Mulder, I'm saying what if I'm not good at it.  What  
if I do something wrong and the dream turns into a  
nightmare?"
 
Realization hit, the way it did when they were on a case  
and he was listening under her words, not to them, his ears  
attentive and his mind somewhere else.  "The dream about  
the dolls. . . you think that's about you being a bad  
mother?"
 
They stood next to the doorway to the restaurant, letting  
customers enter in their winter coats.  He pulled her into  
his arms, tucking her head under his chin.  "The thing is  
Scully," he whispered into her wind-blown hair, "there was  
one thing missing in the dream.  The dolls didn't have a  
dad."
 
* * *
 
Taking her to dinner was better than any dream.  It gave  
them an excuse to get out of the cramped apartment when  
she'd been resting most of the day on the couch, and it  
gave them time to connect with each other in the way they'd  
just started to when she got pregnant and he got abducted.  
He loved watching her eyes widen when she saw a pasta dish  
with artichokes and then linger on the list of desserts--
tiramisu and creme brulee and a rich espresso cheesecake.  
He'd cherished mealtimes most of all since he'd been back,  
for it was then that he saw the old Scully, the one he fell  
in love with over a dribble of barbecue sauce on her chin.  
And it was then that he fully understood how much she was  
giving up to give him this child.  Every day she craved  
something new, and he teased her mercilessly about it.
 
"I don't know how you can even think about eating mushrooms  
after that run-in with the giant fungal organism."  In  
truth, he wasn't sure he could stomach it.
 
"Well," she folded her hands and looked up from her menu,  
"to put it in the simplest terms, I'm perfectly capable of  
distinguishing between your garden variety mushroom and  
yellow, hallucinogenic slime.  Aren't you?"
 
"Funny, Scully.  I really didn't need to be reminded of  
that little field trip to North Carolina."
 
"So, Agent Mulder, are you trying to tell me that you  
haven't eaten a single *fungal organism* in over a year?"
 
"No."
 
"Not on a pizza?"
 
"No."
 
"In hot and sour soup?"
 
"No."  
 
"On a hamburger?  Fried and dipped in bleu cheese  
dressing?"
 
"No, Scully, would you drop it already?  I would not eat  
them in a bowl, I would not eat them on a roll."
 
"Why are you talking like Dr. Seuss?"
 
He reached across the table and took her hand.  "You know  
what, Scully?  It's really good to be home."
 
* * *
 
Climbing into bed, she wrestled with pillows, tucking one  
under her head, one between her knees, one under the  
"maternal bulge"--that's what one of those silly books that  
Byers kept buying called it--while Mulder stood by and  
watched.  Once she was settled, he slid behind her and  
pulled the clean top sheet and comforter over them.  
Nocturnal like her father, Guppy tested her fins in her  
amniotic sea.  
 
"Pipe down in there," Mulder said, running his hand over  
the length of Scully's stomach.  "The old folks need their  
sleep."
 
"How'd you do that?  She never listens to me." Scully  
grumbled, her face smashed into the pillow.
 
"Daddy magic.  Goodnight, Laura."
 
"Night, Rob."
 
For long minutes, Mulder listened to Scully's breathing  
deepen and slow.  Then, like a girl at a slumber party, she  
started giggling.  "I would not eat them with a fox, I  
would not eat them from a box."
 
"Or wearing socks."
 
She stifled a giggle and burrowed into the covers.  
"Goodnight, Mulder."  
 
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart."
 
 
FIN