If you insist on coming to ballet class sporting a jet black bouffant, cat's eye eyeliner, booty shorts and green legwarmers, as if you are Amy Winehouse auditioning for Fame, and then proceed to pull the "look I can stretch my leg above my head -- I must be a real dancer" BS while warming up, even though it turns out flexibility is possibly your only discernible ballet skill because you keep starting the barre exercises facing the wrong way and can't even handle arabesque sautee, well, if you insist on doing that, don't be suprised if I indulge in a sentence worth of schadenfreude at your expense.