Well the week of doom is almost over, which will then open up to the terrace of endless grading and the heap of writing assignments I have to get done. The good news is that with Thanksgiving I'll have time to do a lot of Paris writing because AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I AM FINISH THE DAMN PARIS DIARIES BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR.

It's a lot easier to invoke the lord when you don't believe in him.

If I had the time or the energy I would write about what in the world has happened that there are students who can't write without using the pronouns I, you or we. How some students don't know what an appropriate 4-6 page paper thesis should be (I'm going to compare the isolation of Frankenstein's monster to Gregor's transformation and relate both to the civil rights movement in the US.). How some students apparently don't know the difference between when to use the singular or plural form of a noun. How there is such a profound lack of care in the specificity of language that I get thesis statement like "Gregor is rejected by society because he is different." HE'S A GIANT FUCKING BUG PEOPLE. It's not like he dyed his hair blue or refuses to vote. He's not different, he's unique. And stop throwing around the word" society." Especially in a story that takes place in one apartment. The narrative never leaves the freakin' building.

(deep breath)

If I had the energy I would write about all this and more. About papers I wouldn't have handed in my freshmen year of high school, never mind my senior year of college.

And then I would write about having a student cry over the grades and how suddenly I'm not angry, I feel horrible. Horrible. I'm too hard on them, too demanding, I expect too much....you know like listening and following directions.

I need a nap. And chocolate. and a martini. and a steak au poivre with potatoes. and a long hot bath followed by a full body massage by my personal God Sven Nordic God of Backrubs and tantric sex. And about 15 hours of sleep. And I'll be good.


Bed, Bath, and Beyond
OK so my mother and I just had the strangest conversation. Turns out one of her gay male friends had a photo on his phone of, well, a cockring...with the cock. Yep, not the conversation I was expecting.

Mere Lapin: Well he SAID it was a cock ring, but it just looked like something from under the kitchen sink.

Bunni: Well there was a cock and ring, right? I mean, what were you expecting? Swarovski crystals?

Mere Lapin: I don't know.

Bunni: Well I suppose people get bored up there. Maybe you're right, maybe it's just a ring for hanging the shower curtain.

And here I thought we were going to discuss Thanksgiving plans.

Don't Panic
Well I'm sick. And I spent all of this weekend being sick instead of furiously grading like I should have. On top of that I'm being observed on Wednesday and while normally I'm very confident, I haven't heard about teaching next semester and I'm freaking out. So while I recover from my illness I gotta be on my A game on Wednesday.

And that's just this week.

How do other people live their lives? I mean I teach 3 days a week, and I spend hours at home grading and prepping, but I never feel like I'm very good at things. I mean I knew completely incompetent professors at NYU, but that was an exception. I used to believe I was a good writer, but I look at what I right now and I'm barely impressed. And certainly with teaching, I'm terrified I've become the teacher I was always afraid I would turn into-the teacher who couldn't explain things in a way others could understand. And my social life? At almost 33, a bf over the ocean still terrified of the corridor of holidays not to commit suicide by. Hardly an advertisement for emotional maturity. I am most likely thinking too much, but this is just the only place where I vent my fear. Even my therapist thinks I look like happy and great. But I'm very freaked out at the moment. So I'm gonna have a snack and try and get some rest.

Or maybe I'll watch 5 minutes of America's Most Smartest Model so I can feel like a Noble Prize winner. Just for five minutes, I swear.

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