Bad Morning
Jesus Motherfucking Christ.
This is where I feel the loss of Sunday.
It's 4:40 a.m., and I'm slogging through the mound of grading that I am behind on. And after awhile it's like being hit continually with a soft brick. It doesn't hurt much at first, but each blow just lands harder and harder. I am definately revamping these courses so that there aren't as many papers. Ideally I would revamp these courses so that students can perform better on papers, but there's no guarantee that I'll be able to accomplish that. There's a way that students are just like computers; they kick out what you put into them. So if they give you crap, some of it's their hardware, but a lot of it is programmer error, and that's you. The worse these papers are, the more I stare my own ineptitude in the face. And again with the brick, and another, and another.
4:40 a.m. and I'm climbing into the basement to do my laundry. I have spent most of my childhood and adult life lugging laundry up and down stairs. Such lugging lies ahead of me in the foreseeable future. That thought rolls me into a mire of Sisyphistic, Existentialist angst of breathtaking proportions. For one brief two year period, I lived in a place where the laundry machines were right outside my bedroom door. Heaven! Oh, where are the snows of yesteryear?
(That's from The Glass Menagerie. I just got done grading those papers.)
I haven't even prepared for tomorrow's or Thursday's classes ... and, at this point, I don't care. I don't give one good goddamn. I could let them all go out into the sunshine; they'd be just as pleased ... more so. When I think of the mound of work I have to do on top of this. (And the brick, and another ...) The grading is only the tip of the iceberg. And it's a big, fucking iceberg, and I would be the Titanic, except I'll never reach the iceberg because I'm lagging so far behind.
Oh, where are the beautiful, sexy assassins from the spy movies to provide a moment of eye candy and then a cessation of my misery when I need one. She'd probably sneak up behind me and say, soflty, in a breathy voice, through pouty lips, "My darrrrlingk ... vhat are you vearing!?!"
And I'd say, "Give me a break! It's laundry day!"
This is where I feel the loss of Sunday.
It's 4:40 a.m., and I'm slogging through the mound of grading that I am behind on. And after awhile it's like being hit continually with a soft brick. It doesn't hurt much at first, but each blow just lands harder and harder. I am definately revamping these courses so that there aren't as many papers. Ideally I would revamp these courses so that students can perform better on papers, but there's no guarantee that I'll be able to accomplish that. There's a way that students are just like computers; they kick out what you put into them. So if they give you crap, some of it's their hardware, but a lot of it is programmer error, and that's you. The worse these papers are, the more I stare my own ineptitude in the face. And again with the brick, and another, and another.
4:40 a.m. and I'm climbing into the basement to do my laundry. I have spent most of my childhood and adult life lugging laundry up and down stairs. Such lugging lies ahead of me in the foreseeable future. That thought rolls me into a mire of Sisyphistic, Existentialist angst of breathtaking proportions. For one brief two year period, I lived in a place where the laundry machines were right outside my bedroom door. Heaven! Oh, where are the snows of yesteryear?
(That's from The Glass Menagerie. I just got done grading those papers.)
I haven't even prepared for tomorrow's or Thursday's classes ... and, at this point, I don't care. I don't give one good goddamn. I could let them all go out into the sunshine; they'd be just as pleased ... more so. When I think of the mound of work I have to do on top of this. (And the brick, and another ...) The grading is only the tip of the iceberg. And it's a big, fucking iceberg, and I would be the Titanic, except I'll never reach the iceberg because I'm lagging so far behind.
Oh, where are the beautiful, sexy assassins from the spy movies to provide a moment of eye candy and then a cessation of my misery when I need one. She'd probably sneak up behind me and say, soflty, in a breathy voice, through pouty lips, "My darrrrlingk ... vhat are you vearing!?!"
And I'd say, "Give me a break! It's laundry day!"
posted by - caj at 4:49 AM
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