I haven’t died just yet, though the last few weeks make that feel like a lie. A lot has happened since I wrote here last. I learned that the sickness I so valiantly fought with expired cold medicine was actually pneumonia, which was a little irksome because it kept me from keeping up my normal unhealthy but remarkably efficient sleeping and working habits. I’ve been trudging through classes in my Masters program and intermittently shrieking at the eldritch gods of yore to please, please just fucking end it all. I’ve also sacrificed a few glorious blonde hairs to keep up what I call “a sick ass GPA.” My school and the board of regents has yet to give that title the same weight as Dean’s list, but we’ll see what a dozen more emails accomplishes.
I’ve also been teaching two English classes and learning beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am somehow both hilariously incompetent and remarkably capable as a teacher, and both of those ideas are courtesy of my students, one of whom spent a good hour explaining to me why I was wrong to give him the grade I did and another who wrote me such a kind and heartfelt thank you note at the end of her midterm evaluation of me, that my eyes gave off a strange wet discharge. The contentious grade student was also kind enough to send me a brief 1,300 word email explaining his case in more detail. Meanwhile I’ve been finding new reasons to make my students see writing as less than meeting the unjust requirements of a malevolent academic force and more as a way of bending reality to their will with arcane word magic.
I haven’t written anything in a long time, and looking at what I still have to do to get through the year, it’s easy to start weighing the potential merits of changing my career path from teaching to street-corner modeling. Unfortunately, I’d probably need to get into better shape to really drive up my prostitutability and that’s a commitment to the gym I’m just not willing to make. At least, not while I have potential in the lucrative career of panhandling. I even have a great street performer name picked out: Bond, Vaga Bond.
There have been a few other significant developments in my life, but I can’t decide if that’s something I want to write about. No matter what, it feels like the direction of this site might be changing a little bit once I’m back for good. I’m still the same bitter, boiling mess of a human being, and writing about that will always be fun, but lately I’ve been wanting to direct my barely-articulated fury at different things, bigger things. I’ll still write about hating people who walk to slow on the sidewalk because those people need to know that someone is out there wishing upon every shooting star that they be culled from the Earth. And I’ll still write about teaching because it’s a relentless source of weird, uncomfortable comedy. I just might add more because, as I get older, my bitterness grows stronger, and the idea of always only being angry at the little things feels limiting. Where once I was simply a badger released into the world to growl and loathe everything it sees, now I’m a badger with thumbs and a hammer it stole from a
Walmart–totally unstoppable but maybe cute in a kind of frightening way.
I’ll be back again for about a month after this semester ends, maybe before. Then I’m onto my final semester of grad school which, if the other semesters are anything to go off of, will leave me mentally and physically ruined almost beyond recovery. But then, once it’s over and I have the documentation to justify my demand that everyone call me Master, then I’ll be back for good.