Not on my game today. Driving into my neighborhood, I slowed down before a left turn to wait for a guy on a four-wheeler coming from the opposite direction to pass. He held up his left hand, and I thought he was waving me on, so I turned in front of him. I saw him turn behind me and realized he was giving the bike signal for right turn. Lucky I didn't run him over. Then, I just put on some coffee – because all I want to do right now is take a nap but I can't – and my coffee pot read 9:20 and I thought, "That's not even a real time." Granted, it's the wrong time, but it's a time. Though I guess the whole day hasn't confused me – only the hours since class. I try not to blog about work, but I made a student cry again today, and another one pouted her way through workshop, and I'm trying to figure out if I can actually add a "no freaking out" clause to my syllabi from now on.
Anybody reading this, though, is probably saying, "What? But you're the queen of crying." Maybe I used to be, but only with close friends, or complete strangers, like librarians and people cleaning the bathrooms at Taco Bell. There's no crying in class, no crying in front of acquaintances.
And okay, since she's not going to read it, here was the argument. I'm like – the whole class is like – this story is very abstract. I took a poll of where everybody thought the story was set, and I got these responses: on a roof, on a beach, sitting in front of a computer, in a jungle, at a Starbucks, on an airplane. I said, stop saying my soul this, my spirit that, love love love, and tell us who's in the room. I said be concrete. The writer said, "What's more concrete than the soul?" I said, "Everything." She left.
I decided to take advantage of the bad day, to pile it all on together, and tell the pouting girl after class that she couldn't simply assume I'd direct her thesis, that she had to ask me, and that I was going to say no. She pouted.
Can't wait for Wednesday.
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