Charitable

Well, I'm feeling much, much better after a night of tossing and turning. The cat kept me company during a "stress cry," and I got much of the tension out.

I also came to the conclusion that I cannot in good conscience turn in my revision tonight. It won't be in any shape to be sent off to a publisher, and I truly don't think it's my best writing. Or near it. I would be ashamed of this piece if it did get published. I will need more time to craft it. For those of you who are thinking this is a hypocritical move on my part, after I've bashed a bunch of slacker-writers for not getting their work in, think on this: My commentary grade is on the line, and we cannot spend class time doing the planned activity because of their lateness. That has an effect on the whole class. My not giving the professor envelopes of crap doesn't affect anyone but her, and myself. And she's very understanding about things like this. I don't think one mishap is going to pull down my grade.

Anyway, that's the state of things as far as this class is concerned. Just wanted to clear things up regarding my mood. I'm perfectly cheerful now, and will be for a while, I hope. Please disregard the previous rant. And no. I've decided not to spell check this one. Happy birthday me.

End.

Uncharitable

I am feeling uncharitable. I don't know why. I was almost cheerful earlier. The cat chewed the air tube on the aquarium. I removed the cat. The cat chewed computer cords. I removed the cat. The cat chewed the short stories I was commenting on. I tossed the cat in the bedroom and locked her in. I then wrote apologies to the authors. But I'm not mad at the cat. The story she chewed should have been eaten whole. It should never have been written. It sucked. It was the lousiest story I've read in a long, long while. It had no point. It had no plot. It didn't even have a character. Not really. Just glimpses of stupid people, without anything to make me care about their sucky stupid lives. It wasted precious moments of my life, and I was tempted to take a lighter to it. I'm not going to get it all done. I'm not even going to try anymore. I'm giving up. It's two in the morning. I am really beginning to hate my life. And if you couldn't tell, this is a rant, and I don't need to be told it isn't polite or any of that sort of thing. I've graded a few more first reads, and I take back any kind thing I ever said or thought about these idiot children. They shouldn't have gotten into any college. Hell, I'm amazed they passed the TAAS, and that test was a piece of shit. And you know what? I know what sparked this awful mood. It was that damn, stupid story about nothing and a bus. I really can't stand the author. It's a personal thing. He comments on stories by writing in little grammar tricks, or that he doesn't like it, personally, when a story begins with dialogue. He demands that if you say something takes place in location X, something in your story must make proper use of that location. And you know what? He ignores all higher order concerns in favor of this unhelpful nitpicking. That kind of crap is fine in an academic paper, but hello moron, this is creative writing, and if I feel like omiting quotation marks, it's stylistic and intended, so don't tell me I "must have forgotten them." I didn't. Others have complained as well, so I'm not just being picky about criticism. If he actually critiqued a damn thing, I'd be feeling much nicer about him.

Oh yeah. I had a wonderful time this evening, before I returned home and started grading and reading crap. I'd tell you about it, but I am better off sleeping. I lost a day somewhere, and I didn't even drink last night/this morning. Grr.

Goodnight, hated world. You had better have changed when I wake up.

End. (I suppose this is better than "get lost," which I almost left here.)

Playing Catch Up

Hello, and whatever else you want to hear. I figure I ought to fill in some blanks at the very least, and explain a few things that have been happening recently.

I'll start with this morning/last night, since it's the most recent of the occurrences. I was invited (in a desperate manner) to a party where we would watch old movies, listen to disco and generally waste time. I thought, what the hell, they said it wouldn't go too late. E and AM came to pick me up, and we drove to T's house.

You know the party isn't what we advertised when the hostess asks you if you want red or white wine, beer, or "cold duck." Oh, and said hostess and her boyfriend, P, are smoking indoors. Now, I personally asked for water, and was then given a choice of a cup of red wine or a cup of white wine. I sighed, and chose the white.

I'm a good faker. It probably isn't something I should brag about, but I can pretend to drink just about anything. I can also pretend to have a good time just about anywhere. I put those faker skills to the test, and nursed that wine for two hours, before getting my little blue cup and taking it to the sink/wine bottle alley for a refill. Over the next hour (yes, it was a long party), I drank that water, and got more, drinking a little more quickly as the night wore on. I'm pretty sure T thought I was having wine the whole time, because at about midnight, she asked if I was sure I wanted more. E, our driver, did something similar. When I got up, she asked if I would get her another cup. I sure did, and soon she was getting water refills on the sly. Oh, our little group of fakers.

There were several people there, and more kept coming as the night progressed. M is actually a very good guitarist. He can listen to a track of music once, and then play along with it the second time. Even if he's never heart it before. Then, of course, T decided to prank call our classmate, Slacker. The phone was passed around, and everyone had to prank a message for him. I told him it wasn't too late to marry Reuben, but he had to do it quick before they passed that Amendment. M pretended to be Reuben and told him that he looked forward to the movie later that night. He would bring the butter. E told him that he owed her 200 bucks, whether he showed up or not, and AM told him to call Shaquayquay for a good time. So on and so forth. Again, good faking of a fun time had by all.

Finally, Slacker showed up and became the fourth person smoking indoors. By this time, T and P had migrated toward the rum, and were sharing a bottle. Deep sigh. Soon, people were prank-calling people whose names I can't remember well enough to assign an initial to, and E, AM, M and I gathered in a little group of sober nonsmokers in a corner. Then T's other friends showed up, and four more people started smoking indoors.

Perhaps you have read the entry about the Hub City Brewery. About the good time I had there, despite the smoking. About the intense headache and eye rubbing. The door at T's place was wide open the whole time, and pulled most of the smoke out, but my clothes still reeked, and my eyes were still burning, regardless.

A few of T's friends decided to see who could make out the longest, and went at it on the kitchen floor. They were drunk when they arrived, and then started drinking "cold duck" like there was no tomorrow. Soon, at about one am, they decided that the party on 82nd street sounded fun, and that everyone had to go. They had kegs and barbecue on 82nd street. Oh. Fun.

At this point, I didn't think I could fake a good time any longer, and just told them we'd follow their cars, if they would give us instructions as well. We didn't want to get lost on our way to fun city. E and I went through the house blowing out candles, because T was obviously not planning to do it herself.

When we got outside, in the fresh, nicotine-free air, we convinced M to follow us, instead of T and friends. He was more than willing. We went to IHOP. Can you blame us? At IHOP, we talked for a long time about the department, the programs, our current projects, and all sorts of things. We left at about two thirty, and checked our office mail. This part needs explanation. I will do that later.

We dropped AM off, and then E and I spent an hour or so talking in the car before I got to my apartment. I think I crashed at about five or so in the morning, after Fabreeze-ing every stitch of clothing that I had been wearing. Poor Charlotte. She hadn't been able to figure out why I smelled so strange when I came in, or why I had broken schedule so drastically.

A recap of things I haven't mentioned about the party. We did listen to disco, and even talked about the possibility of dancing to it (but no one was drunk enough to do it, and I sure as hell wasn't about to make a fool of myself). We watched "Cry Baby" with Johnny Depp, and ate Twinkies and M&Ms off a mirror. T thought that was really neat. There was a kitty cat that came by (and in) periodically. A Russian blue we nicknamed Mr. Sullivan. Poor Mr. Sullivan had an earring. I kid you not. A cross earring in his right ear. He ate a whole can of tuna in about a minute, and was all set to drink the red wine that got spilled on the carpet, except that we got it cleaned up before he could. Poor thing. He could have been such a healthy, wonderful cat. He had a great personality and was loving and affection starved. He also had mats in his fur that E and I combed out with our fingers.

I will now explain the checking mail at three am part of this. We had short stories due on the 8th, to be taken home, commented on, and workshopped on the 15th. Only seven stories of the 14 can be workshopped at a time, so the first seven people to ask for an extension of one week got their wish. Fine. I wouldn't have read all 14 anyway. On the 15th, however, those stories had to be present and accounted for so that we could all get one of each to take home, comment on, and workshop for the 22nd. Three of the seven were turned in. The others were to be placed in our mailboxes. I recall hearing "by Wednesday," but figure I could be wrong about that. I made time to comment on these stories Wednesday. They weren't in the box. I checked Thursday at four, before going home. They weren't in the box. I don't go to campus Friday, Saturday or Sunday, and I only go Monday right before class, because I don't like walking half a mile in the dark to get to my car.

As I stated previously in this entry (which is nice and long, isn't it?), I checked that mailbox at three-fucking-AM. No stories. On waking up this morning at ten or so, I emailed the professor for the course and told her about my planned time, the lack of stories, my non-campus weekends, my 3am mail check, and my absolute refusal at this time to comment on their stories even if they were emailed to me. I told her very politely that I was angered by this, and felt that I had done all that could be expected of me in this situation, if not more than was expected. I told her that I would not have those stories read, and that I would not be able to workshop them very well because of it. I then asked how this would affect my grade in both commentary and participation. I haven't heard back yet, but I'm not especially upset by this. I really just wanted to let her know why I would not be prepared tomorrow, and that it was not, in my opinion, my fault. I hope their grades suffer immensely. They had two weeks to write it to get it in on time. They had a week extension in addition to this. They then slacked off for almost another whole week. They've had their chances, and many of them. Unless their mothers died, or their houses burned down, or they were involved in a serious car crash, they should be more on top of things than this.

Well, that was last night/this morning. In about an hour, E is picking me up so we can go eat. I've decided my birthday dinner will be held at Cheddars. We leave here and pick up AM, K, and R, go eat, have fun, and come home. It is the kind of entertaining evening where I don't have to fake enjoyment. After this, I will finish commenting on the stories I do have, and start thinking about my revision due tomorrow. I think if I read the story I wrote a few times, and then the commentary she gave me (which is not that of J, who focuses on whether or not he likes my syntax and ignores all higher order concerns, fat little bastard), I will be well on my way toward ideas. Then if I take most of Monday to write, I can print out labels and cover letters before class, and be set. I am not fond of this story anyway, and almost don't want it to be published. I wonder if she would understand that. Oh well.

Tuesday, I go cat-trapping! We are going to be trapping the cats on campus and taking them to the vet to be spayed or neutered. Then we release them back onto campus and feed them. Apparently, S has been working on this for years alone. Now E and I will be helping. It should be fun. I'll let you know how it goes.

E and I start cleaning the apartment Wednesday, then R and I pick up the Albertson’s dinner to go thing on Thursday, and then everyone comes over here and we pig out! Lots of fun!

Well, I'm going to go get ready for dinner, and maybe even read my story once or twice. Start ruminating. Ah, the joys of being a responsible slacker.

End.

Fight!

Today, we had a most interesting class. Very few of us had done the
reading, and those of us who did (myself included) had no idea what it
meant. It was not written in English. It was in Theory, which is a
language that looks, at first glance, similar to English. In any case, we
were asked to summarize and contextualize (more jargon) one of these two
articles. We all chose the first of the two. At this point, there was the
"tell me what you found" part of class. We complied. We understood that
article.

Yeah, well the second article was next on the list, but none of us had done
that one. So we sat there like surly junior high students and looked at the
table. This was not appreciated by the prof, who asked continued, pointed
questions, followed by a deep and sturdy silence. I timed one of the
silences. A full minute. Might not seem like a long time, really, but you
try being on either side of the question while the time ticks by. She
finally started to yell. I swear, if I had had the faintest idea what to
say, I'd have said it, simply to avoid the silence. Really. But I had no
idea, so I stayed quiet and avoided eye contact while projecting "gosh, I
really need to think on this" as strongly as I could. The "do not call on
me" mantra echoed through my thoughts, and I was as miserable as the rest of
the class.

With only fifteen minutes left to go (this had been going on for thirty),
she asked us why we didn't want to talk about the article. I guess
professors have to get desperate to ask this. I wish she'd asked it
earlier, because I had an answer. The stupid thing made no sense. It was
written entirely in theoretical jargon, explained none of the statements it
made, and referred to people I'd never heard of as though I'd read their
latest multi-volume masterpiece of theory. We stated as much, gradually,
trying not to upset the already volatile Dr. Guh.

She responded by telling us in that raised, "I'm trying so hard not to yell"
voice, that we needed to speak up about that earlier in a discussion so we
could talk about it. After this, things got worse. Yes. They can indeed
get worse.

She brought up grading, and told us that we had to be at 100% by the end of
things. We had been told continually up to this point that we merely had to
grade 12-14 a week in first reads. There is a 60 paper gap between what
we've been told and what she demanded. We balked at this, and a little
argument ensued. You will be thrilled to note, SR, that I did not
participate and therefore am probably on no one's shit list.

We spent the rest of class and over getting lectured in a threatening tone
of voice (along with the "finger," where the prof stabs the air in
accusation) that we were all going to get horrible grades if we were not
caught up, and that we'd had plenty of time to get caught up. The response
was an overwhelming "Nah uh! Prof 2 said we only had to be within 60
drafts!" It continued, and got uglier, but I won't. You can probably
imagine the tension in the room, and our collective anger. She ended by
telling us that she expected us to email her a concise statement of what we
were thinking we had to do in order to do our jobs.

Now here's my big bone to pick with all this. They told us straight up that
we weren't qualified to grade at all, but that we'd be getting some practice
through the semester. We were getting paid training through the classes.
Then they told us that starting the first day of classes, we'd be grading,
but that we still weren't going to be doing first reads. Then they threw a
shitload of first reads at us that they'd been holding back until that
point. They told us not to worry about the number, but that we were to do
12 a week. Then they told us, better make that 12-14. Then she comes by
and says we have to do all of it, including that which had piled up from
before we were even allowed to grade the nasty things.

Plus, we still aren't qualified to teach according to state law, and we're
teaching a significant portion of the class by grading. This is illegal,
I'm sure.

Well, my email explained that I thought the composition faculty had met (and
I forwarded proof of this meeting) and decided that 12-14 was enough, but do
try to get caught up if you're not already going over 5 hours. I sent along
the email that stated this. People, I'm spending far more than 5 hours a
week doing this. They can't just say when all the big presentations and
projects are due that we need to do four weeks worth of grading in addition
to what we've got, in the remaining three weeks of class. It isn't ethical.
So far, I've been quiet, but I *will* baulk if things go that direction.

That's about it. My dinner is ready, and I'm going to eat and grade.

End.

The Almighty Blah

Okay, folks. I'm just gonna email this in, because I'm too lazy right now
to sign into the site. Blah.

It's been raining here for three solid days. I mean, there has not been a
thirty minute stretch of time where there has not been water falling from
the sky. The whole of Dirt Town is flooded. The water is above the curb in
MOST places. Also, the right lanes are all underwater, as well as about
half of the middle lanes. So if you want to, say, turn into the school, you
have to go two miles an hour and hope your car doesn't get stuck. Of
course, the lights don't stay green long enough for many cars to do this.
And heaven help you if you get stuck in a flooded lane and no one will let
you over. They have cops directing traffic, since no one is considerate or
knowledgeable about driving as soon as it gets wet here. They'd been
forecasting snow for this past weekend, but it never got cold enough. We've
certainly gotten the water part of that equation, though.

I had a very productive weekend. In fact, I almost didn't get on the
computer at all, which means I did very little grading (bad thing). I did
all those little domestic things that I've been meaning to do but never had
any time for. I got cat little to last forever, and a very solid, locking
plastic tub to keep the cat out of it. I bought more food for the little
she-devil, and a new toy that has her panting for breath and gasping on cold
tile floors. I'm a satisfied customer. It means she's too tired to bother
me for a while.

I got to head off to the library and borrow the evil "Dr." Laura book on
husbands. It's for a project in Feminism. I refuse to support her
anti-Feminist movement by purchasing her foul book. The only drawback to
having borrowed that book is that I can't mark it up and dog-ear pages for
quick reference. But they make sticky notes for that sort of thing, so I'll
be alright. I'll let you know how it goes. I present Thursday. I've also
got a short paper due tomorrow (or rather, later today), for that class.
But back to my blissful weekend.

I went to Wal-Mart (bane of my existence), and stocked up on "it's snowing
and I don't wanna go anywhere, but I'm starving and need food" items. This
means lots of beans, pasta, box dinners, cans of soup, chicken stock for
dumplings, etc. I went to United and bought the more perishable items I
wanted, as well as much ground beef for the freezer and a bag of frozen
chicken breasts. And bread. Bread freezes well.

I got gas, and I went to pick up the photos of She-Devil. She's kind of
cute in these pictures, although my skills as a photographer are severely
lacking. The developed photos show more mess than cat, and prompted the
fall cleaning spree I then engaged in. The bathroom got its weekly
cleaning, the dishes ALL got done, the kitchen got disinfected, etc. The
fridge got cleaned out, shelves got put up in the bedroom closets and stuff
got relocated. I have a living room! I have carpet!

I made birthday cookies. Two batches = 96 cookies. Most of them are in the
freezer, but I've got a package of them destined for the office, and little
bundles for specific people outside of the office. They should last a long
time. A few of us are going out to eat Sunday night, and things will be
cool.

I've fallen a bit behind on my first reads (I'm two behind for this last
week, so I need to do extra this current week), but it shouldn't be too big
a deal.

At this point, I am tired, and will be going to bed.

End.

Cat Fight

Hey there.

Last night, I actually felt tired at about ten, and had enough stuff done to actually go to bed at about ten. So I did. Charlotte was having none of that, however.

What I found to be particularly annoying about my "restful night" was that she's almost always asleep at that time anyway. Regularly, she dozes nearby until I go to bed at two or three, with a brief spurt of activity at about midnight. But when I tried to go to bed early, she was wide-awake and just absolutely fascinated by the curtains.

Here's the timeline: Please keep in mind that when I say I "throw", "chuck", "toss," etc. the cat, I mean a semi-gentle, underhand arc of movement designed to get her to the floor faster than gently setting her down. I do not mean I wind up, and pitch the cat overhand across the room. First, I would never be able to bring myself to that level of violence to any living being, especially the kitty I love. Second, I doubt the cat would hold still for such treatment, even if I *were* the kind of monster who could do that to her. Now that we have that squared away, and none of you think I'm a mean, violent person who needs to be reported to SPCA, let's continue with the timeline:

I go to bed at about ten-fifteen. Charlotte looks at me like I'm crazy.

Ten-thirty, Charlotte jumps up on my pillow and stands there, pawing at the curtains as she tries to see out the really high window above my bed. I tell her no, pick her up, and set her down on the floor. She gets back up; I put her on the floor. She gets back up; I throw her on the floor. She gets back up, I pick her up, take her to the living room, deposit her, and grab squirt bottle.

Ten-forty-five, I am in bed again, squirt bottle in hand. Charlotte looks at me from the floor. She jumps onto night stand, trying for a new route to the curtains. She steps from the nightstand to my pillow, and paws at curtains. I squirt. Charlotte runs off to lick herself dry, glaring reproachfully at me the whole time.

Eleven, I doze, nearly to dreamland, but not quite there. Pressure on the pillow, tail in the face, goodbye to dreamland. I wait for her to grab the curtains, then I spring up with the bottle, and drench her backside. She scampers off to lick.

Eleven-thirty, I am once again almost asleep. Once again, a tail lashes my face, and I see Charlotte, posed, but not pawing. She's looking at me, daring me to squirt her. I glare, and shake the bottle. She turns from me and purposefully starts pawing at the curtains. I seethe as I unload half the bottle at her, aiming primarily for her face, and following her retreat with a continuous stream of mist. Charlotte bolts from room entirely, and I flop back down to sleep.

Half past midnight, there's a sopping wet tail in my face. I groan, curse the powers that be, grab the cat, get out of bed, stand by the door, and chuck her forcibly from the room. I slam the bedroom door behind her.

Three in the morning, I get up to go pee. My bedside water is out, my bottle is half empty. I fill both containers and retreat to my bedroom. I leave the door open, since the cat has surely learned her lesson. You may laugh, if you so desire.

Five-thirty, I wake to sensation of someone pulling my hair. I find the cat perched on my freaking pillow, a strand of my hair in her mouth as she tugs. I retrieve my hair and place the cat on the ground. I flop over. She returns, to bite at my hands. I push her off the bed. She jumps up to lick my face. I scream bloody murder at her, repeat the exorcism of this furry little demon from my bedroom, and return to sleep. Almost.

Six in the morning, the cat stops crying at the door, and I fall asleep sometime after this.

That's the basic timeline of my "restful" night. I have come to the following conclusions.

1. I must have gone to bed too early for the cat's liking.
2. Charlotte was confused, and thought she was doing her duty to keep me up and working.
3. If I want to sleep earlier, I need to do it on the futon, where she sees me napping regularly.
4. I am whipped. By a cat.

That's not the end of this, folks. She also knocked my toothbrush into the toilet, and got in my way while I brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush to the extent that I locked her out of the bathroom while I finished up. I also had to put her in the bedroom while I puttered around in the kitchen, to keep her from tripping me and jumping up to bat at the drawstrings of my yoga pants.

However, when I returned home, she was a fine, upstanding kitty-cat. Well behaved, loving, gentle, and all that. And since I started grading a few hours ago, and while I write this, she's been fast asleep against my left side, drooling on the futon while her tail and paws twitch. If I were in the bedroom, she'd be giving me hell.

There you have it. My little cat fight. Now that I've ranted it out, I can see if going to bed at midnight is more acceptible to the little shit.

End.

I Saw Him Again

Well, today went just fine. Cat's in a snoot, had another computer scare (internet failed with much grading left to do), fixed said computer scare (found cat had unplugged modem, plugged it in and scolded cat), printed off story, added page numbers to story, reprinted story, went to school. On the way there the same bastard in the same red truck cut me off three separate times. Asshole. Honestly, it isn't like he got too far ahead of me, since he ended up behind me again repeatedly. Why zip if you aren't even any good at it? Class went well enough. And then I got out of class. That's when two things happened that really pissed me off.

I walked to my car, and got in, turned on lights, etc. I am in the habit of checking everything before I back out of a parking space. So I check things. It takes far less than a minute to do this kind of thing, it sure beats being halfway to the apartment before seeing funny lights and whatnot. Some kind of event was going on, which made parking scarce. I was backing out, slowly, since the idiot to my right was over the line on my side, and this set of headlights is coming at me. I growl, and scooch forward to let the guy pass, since he doesn't seem to be stopping for me. He honks at me. I shrug, and take that to mean he wants my space. Fine. I pull back out, but apparently, I'm not going fast enough, because he honks a few more times. I flip him off and go even slower. Yes, rudeness in action. Yes, I know the bastard was probably running late and was in a hurry. But I'm giving him my parking space, and the least he could do is be quiet about it. I finally get out of there, and feel generally angered at the world. It might be worth it to note that his car was a very dark color. I say this, because it proves that he wasn't the guy who followed me home.

I saw the smiling man in the white car again tonight. It was the same guy. Last time I lost him by making a few turns I don't usually make. This time, I was going in the other direction (I park somewhere else on Mondays, and go home differently), and he came up behind me and got too close for safe driving. He followed me down the street, put his blinker on seconds after I did, made turns right on my tail, and smiled. Just like last time. I felt the sudden urge to go to United Foods, and pick up some flaked coconut for a batch of cookies. He turned into the parking lot with me, and I sat there for a minute while he circled the lot and left. I spent a bit longer in the store than was needed to buy coconut, and asked the clerk to carry my bag of coconut out there with me, since it was dark, and someone was following me. He was more than obliging, and I made a few weird turns on the way home, just in case. I don't think I've felt quite this way in a while. I had been just leaving my blinds open for the light, but tonight I feel like closing them. I also feel like moving heavy furniture in front of my door, but I know when I'm going overboard.

Ah well. At least I have the construction worker next door to take my mind off of the smiling man. He's been taking woodshop classes, I'm sure, and has a power saw out in his porch area. I've heard it many nights. My dad has a workshop in the garage, and he takes his work out to the patio sometimes. But you know, he doesn't live in a crowded apartment complex, and he generally stops by ten or so. In fact, no one is really close to our house, so I doubt anyone would care how late Dad does his building stuff.

And I'd be lying if I said I really minded this guy. Right now he's hammering some stuff. He only uses the saw on weekends. It's kind of odd, but he doesn't irritate me with his noise. The fighting upstairs only irritates me when it sounds like it's coming to blows. She's sobbing, he's screaming, she's interrupting him with "I'm sorry"s that don't sound sorry. It gets old. I just want to give them a plane ticket to wherever they shoot Jerry Springer. I'd throw in a few pieces of raw meat and some duct tape, just to make sure they got on the show.

Well, there's still some grading to do, and I've gotten it out of my system, mostly. Ta.

End.

Little Known Legends and Picky Muses

Greetings. I've got it done, the horrid metafiction short story of doom. Even having knowledge of metafiction, and knowing what general things comprise metafiction doesn't give me the peace of mind that what I wrote is, indeed, metafiction. Yikes. It's half lyric essay, at least. It certainly isn't the kind of thing the people in my class would want to read. It's also the only thing my overtaxed muse could come up with after three solid days of failed ideas. That's about fifteen pages of wasted time, nearly half that many different possible leads, and as many different ideas. I hate (HATE) metafiction. You heard me complaining about modular stories, but this metafiction is the blackened pit of hell in comparison. Use all sorts of gimmicky tricks to create it, but make sure you have a really good point, and that it isn't just gimmick. That's not exactly the kind of sound, concrete advice that's conducive to good fiction. Play pranks on your readers, but make sure you've got a good reason? Come on!

In any case, I expanded on the only four lines of information I found on this forest chick from Hungary, and got about seven pages of whiny, "please don't forget me" crap. It's what they're getting. Hopefully, they'll be full of advice on how to save this wreck, and I can churn out something more appropriate before I need to send it to publishers.

Oh well. I get my POV story back tomorrow, and I'll be able to see how well the "cute" genre works. I don't have high hopes. But if they want one a week, they're gonna need to lower their expectations. My poor muse is running dry.

Now, I need to go grade about twelve first reads, by Monday at midnight. It should take about six hours, all told, and I plan to leave most of that for tomorrow. Last night, I went to bed at five, and I'm not interested in repeating that. (I don't usually make it a habit to stay up that late, SR, but when the bedraggled muse finally speaks, I obey.) Oh well. I can squeeze in about two before bed tonight, and then call it a day.

End.

Well, here I am again. No mishaps in the drive home.

My teaching philosophy is in rough draft form as I type, and that's all I had planned to do to it before bed. But I figured, what the hell, I'll do a little something to let you folks know I'm still alive. So.

Charlotte is no longer pining afer a sweet young Tom to ease her various stresses, so we're happier here. I've got another story due Monday, but this time, I've got no idea what to write. The other one went alright, and I should be getting back my copies with all the scribbles on them. Then it's revise, revise, revise.

I can't think of much more to say right now, so I'll just head off to bed for the night. See you all later today when it's light out.

End.

At This Rate...

Well, November started off with a bang, didn't it? All through October, I've been complaining about the lack of Fall weather. The first day of November, a storm blew in that put the temperatures down to freezing in a few hours. Then it rained all night. The second day of November, I fell asleep at about 4:30 am, and it was howling out fit to tear a wall down. The cat was scared. I woke up about four hours later (less, I guess, but close to four), to a phone call from a friend up here. She said it was snowing. One word. Damn. Actually, the words were "Oh, damn it all! What do you mean it's snowing!?"

Yes, my readers. Snow. Fluffy crisp blankets of it hovering over the land, blinding in the light of the risen sun! Snow! Don't let my romantic language fool you. I was displeased by this development. We spent another fifteen minutes on the phone, discussing the best method for arriving on campus. A mutual friend of ours needed a ride, as she walks to school and has few if any winter clothes. I finally volunteered to drive us all up here.

It took me a while to find my car, when I was ready to leave. I had been forced to park, shall we say, way the hell out of my way the previous night, and I stopped at every car with a hint of red under the snow. I'd clear off a small bit to see if it was my car, and then move on. My car was the fifth reddish car I came to. I spent a few minutes clearing away the door so I could open it, and as soon as I did, the wind blew a whole bunch of snow into the car. Eventually, I was ready to drive.

People typically learn to drive in the summer months. I am not exception to this. My first snow-driving experience was, however, more enjoyable than I had expected. For example, I did not die. Neither did my passengers. Or anyone else nearby. By the time I arrived on campus, plus two people, I had become a reasonable snow-driver. Not great, by any standard. I try not to kid myself. But as safe as a summer-driver can be.

The walk over here to the building was pleasant, and the walk across campus for lunch was also quite nice. Con-U has a lot to learn from this cafeteria. No bulky square tables with hard, unyielding chairs in this place. No. Small private tables in corners, large round jobs scattered through the middle of the room, seating for all... This was a very comfortable cafeteria. The students are spread in such a way that you do not get the feeling that everyone is watching you as you move through the room. The servers gave you proper portions, instead of handing you a spoon and letting you be the judge. This was fine. I had okra (very tolerable, though a bit bready), mashed potatoes (real, but with flavor), and a piece of chicken fried steak (not my favorite piece of meat, but it was hella better than Con-U's). I was, shall we say, pleasantly shocked. The meal came out to a pricey five bucks, but it was a better spent five bucks than it could have been.

I'm about five minutes from walking out the door to drive some people home. I can only hope it hasn't iced out after dark. Oh well. I might do another of these to let people know I made it. But then, I might not. I've a good idea about sleeping some, and making up for the "four or fewer hours of sleep per night for five or more days" thing that's been going on. I might camp out on the futon and watch the election until I fall asleep.

Well, people are ready. Let's go die!

End.

Hey again

Yeah, so I needed a break from my paper, and I can't very well take a nap, since I wouldn't get up in time to finish the nasty paper. It's currently 35 degrees out, although the weather people say it feels like 23. We've got a mixture of snow and rain, although I don't think it's cold enough for the snow part to come true. We've got steady winds at about 36 mph, and it'll take a lot to motivate me to leave my cocoon of green fuzzy.

Wednesday, I'm not setting my alarm. I'm going to take some nice melatonin at about eight tonight. Then I'm going to curl up in my blankets and sleep until I wake up. If the cat upsets this dream vacation, I'll be more than miffed.

Speaking of my dear cat. She has been extremely affectionate lately, due mostly to her hormone-stricken state of mind. She decided she wanted to be close to me, and that curling up on my legs wasn't close enough. So the little thing placed herself in my arms (I was typing), and curled up with her paws tangled in the laces of my shirt. I swear, that cat makes me feel more maternal every day. I spent at least half an hour cradling her and rubbing cheeks with her. I had to call it quits when she began licking my neck. She'll be licking away sometimes, then suddenly bite. I'm not interested in explaining how I let my cat bite me on the neck, so I settled her at my side and she seemed happy enough there. She wakes me up by licking my nose in the mornings. Such a cutie.

She doesn't like storms or the wind. Even before she started doing her little rutting dance by the door, she had to be right by me when it rained out. If I came home and it was raining, she'd be curled up under my sheets. Tonight with all the wind, she's been jumping all the time. Every gust and her ears flick up. She's so nervous about it. Little thing just fell asleep a few minutes ago, although the wind hasn't died down. I wish I could go to bed.

Well, I'm much less irritated by my subject matter now, so I can post this and get back to the paper. I've only got about two pages to go, and they should come easily if I can find a good sentence. Sometimes, those are very hard to come by.

Oh well.

End.

Someone should check the weather before heading to class...

I left the apartment today and the weather was a bit nippy. Just a bit, mind you. Enough of a snap in the air to make me put on a reversible jacket. I went to class, and boy, let me tell you, the weather sure did change while I was inside. As of now, it's about 38 degrees out. With the wind, it should feel like 26 degrees. I believe it. You know what sucked even more? It started raining on the way home. We're supposed to get snow tonight, or early tomorrow. Kind of sudden, isn't it? Just three days ago, we were all complaining about how warm it was, and wondering whether Fall would ever arrive. It did. Just a few hours ago.

The car started just fine, of course, and I got home with no major mishaps, although the wind was at the side of the car and kept trying to push me into other lanes. I'm not especially happy about this development, although I love winter. If there had been warning (and closed toe shoes), I would have loved the lengthy walk to my car. There was no nearby parking, and a classmate needed a ride. She walks to classes. She's also from the Caribbean, and thought that in Texas, she'd need to buy a light jacket about now. Poor thing nearly froze her butt off. I gave her a long-sleeved shirt to wear to the car and to her apartment, and am bringing a sweater up to school tomorrow. I'll leave it in the desk drawer for emergencies like that.

Now all I've got to do tonight is about three fourths of the paper for tomorrow, and then (we won), the philosophy statement for Friday. And, of course, more grading. That never ends. It's an ongoing project from the depths of Hell. So far, there have been many papers criticizing the TOPIC program, and they are, for the most part, well written. When they're nice and professional, meet the criteria, and don't piss me off, I give these some pretty good grades. I'm not too fond of the program myself.

Well, my feet still haven't thawed, so I'm going to go pull out my fluffy stockings and make some tea before writing a paper on how much I love TOPIC.

Ciao.