Lefty, and other news
As I type this, Charlotte is pressing her darling little face up against the plastic of the betta tank. The fish in question stares back with no little trepidation. This feline beast has the ignomious reputation of having murdered his fishy cousin, Edgar. Never was there such a fish as Edgar. *blink* Actually, there are quite a few fish just like Edgar; more, since he's dead. The number of similar fish grow with every flushed toilet. Exponentially speaking, the world could be buried alive -- or dead -- with un-decomposed fish corpses, this eventuality being prevented only by the natural tendency of fish corpses to rot. So. Even if there were to be a great dredging of fishy similatitudes (word???) the world o'er, there could still never be found a cat like Mephistopheles... er... I mean a fish like Alexander. The new betta, version one. Alexander the Great shares a corner tank with his sworn enemy and new betta version two, the dreaded Freddie Mercury, making Fat Bottomed Girls go to war over his spiny, plumed helmet... er... tail fin.
If you couldn't tell, the mood around here is bordering on sane, but not quite ready to invade or join ranks with it. I've done my readings for tomorrow, and have a bit of a headache, probably due to the aforementioned readings, which focused one and all on the varying availability of novels and literature of all kinds on the British Island, the times in question spanning the darkest of ages to the brimming beacon of Victoria's reign. Various and sundry details were included in each of the six articles, with each article repeating almost exactly the same thing that all the previous articles had put forth in great, ponderous writing, including several references to British currency, without the beneficial offering of the spelled out names of coin, note, and other forms of money, nor even of the equivalency in the form of a chart. Shoot me now.
Poetry today saw the end of my speaking aloud in class, as the one time I suggested a possible meaning to a single line of a poem that had NO POINT, I was curiously blinked at before the class moved on. Thinking I had been wrong, and therefore forgotten, I was satisfied to sink further into my chair and be ignored. But instead of being granted that anonymity, I was instead informed point blank about half an hour later by our esteemed professor that "therefore, there is no possibility of your having been correct." Yes, that's right. Not only blinked at, but told I was so wrong that I ought not to have spoken in the first place. Understandably, not a single person volunteered even a word after he said this to me, and the rest of class was very quiet, punctuated with futile questions and prompts from a professor we all feared as a potential embarrasser. At the end of class, he announced that we would be taking turns explaining poems to the class, which just plain scares the shit out of me. Last thing I want is to sit there and spend fifteen minutes going on about a poem that I acknowledge I know nothing about, only to have him tell me I'm wrong again and that I wasted that much class time.
There are troubles in the office now, mostly due to hostile silences directed toward me from another. I'd say angry stares, but I am being most studiously ignored in that area. Even when I speak directly to her she stares off to one side and several miles into the distance, where I'm sure there are ice flows of some kind or another. It will be an interesting semester unless this gets worked out.
I discovered the joys of adding a pearl or two to my knitting. Also, I discovered that I, the most right-handed person I know, knit left-handed. Yes. I can't write a word with the left hand, I can't eat with my left hand, I have to turn papers over when folding into thirds because I can't even fold with my left hand. Yet I am knitting with that hand. I was taught to knit by someone who is right-handed and knits with the right hand. I sat watching two right-handed knitters knit with the right hand. I then tried my own hand at it, was successful, and thought nothing of it. But it turns out I've been knitting with the left hand the entire time. I am baffled. Utterly baffled. I also begin to sound like Gertrude Stein. This could spell trouble, if it continues. First I'm all paid-by-the-wordy, then I'm Stein. Did I mention being shot earlier? Now would be a good time for it.
Well, in the absence of sudden loud endings to this life, I will begin my left-handed knitting, and go to bed shortly.
End.
If you couldn't tell, the mood around here is bordering on sane, but not quite ready to invade or join ranks with it. I've done my readings for tomorrow, and have a bit of a headache, probably due to the aforementioned readings, which focused one and all on the varying availability of novels and literature of all kinds on the British Island, the times in question spanning the darkest of ages to the brimming beacon of Victoria's reign. Various and sundry details were included in each of the six articles, with each article repeating almost exactly the same thing that all the previous articles had put forth in great, ponderous writing, including several references to British currency, without the beneficial offering of the spelled out names of coin, note, and other forms of money, nor even of the equivalency in the form of a chart. Shoot me now.
Poetry today saw the end of my speaking aloud in class, as the one time I suggested a possible meaning to a single line of a poem that had NO POINT, I was curiously blinked at before the class moved on. Thinking I had been wrong, and therefore forgotten, I was satisfied to sink further into my chair and be ignored. But instead of being granted that anonymity, I was instead informed point blank about half an hour later by our esteemed professor that "therefore, there is no possibility of your having been correct." Yes, that's right. Not only blinked at, but told I was so wrong that I ought not to have spoken in the first place. Understandably, not a single person volunteered even a word after he said this to me, and the rest of class was very quiet, punctuated with futile questions and prompts from a professor we all feared as a potential embarrasser. At the end of class, he announced that we would be taking turns explaining poems to the class, which just plain scares the shit out of me. Last thing I want is to sit there and spend fifteen minutes going on about a poem that I acknowledge I know nothing about, only to have him tell me I'm wrong again and that I wasted that much class time.
There are troubles in the office now, mostly due to hostile silences directed toward me from another. I'd say angry stares, but I am being most studiously ignored in that area. Even when I speak directly to her she stares off to one side and several miles into the distance, where I'm sure there are ice flows of some kind or another. It will be an interesting semester unless this gets worked out.
I discovered the joys of adding a pearl or two to my knitting. Also, I discovered that I, the most right-handed person I know, knit left-handed. Yes. I can't write a word with the left hand, I can't eat with my left hand, I have to turn papers over when folding into thirds because I can't even fold with my left hand. Yet I am knitting with that hand. I was taught to knit by someone who is right-handed and knits with the right hand. I sat watching two right-handed knitters knit with the right hand. I then tried my own hand at it, was successful, and thought nothing of it. But it turns out I've been knitting with the left hand the entire time. I am baffled. Utterly baffled. I also begin to sound like Gertrude Stein. This could spell trouble, if it continues. First I'm all paid-by-the-wordy, then I'm Stein. Did I mention being shot earlier? Now would be a good time for it.
Well, in the absence of sudden loud endings to this life, I will begin my left-handed knitting, and go to bed shortly.
End.
posted by Rehkmira @ 23:54
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