On Mondays after school I take the bus to Aaron's work to pick up the dog who is usually hanging out next door at Aaron's coworker's house. If I get there early enough, before Aaron gets off work at 10pm, he will set me up with a glass of wine and a little appetizer and I'll hang out in the kitchen until Aaron's done. Afterwards, we walk the 15 blocks home together, immediately crawl into our pjs, and watch Adult Swim. It's a nice tradition.
This particular Monday, I was tickled when, after having mentioned that I was cold due to a lack of foresight (the temperature ranges what feels like 10 degrees from the mornings to the afternoons to the evenings), I showed up at Aaron's work and he presented me with a sweatshirt. That is a romantic gesture in a long-term relationship.
In my stupid fucking English class last night, I wrote this:
"I hate the people in class who react to what the teacher says as though he is saying it directly to them. They respond to every phrase with an, "Uh-huh," or a, "Sure," and laugh uproarously at every potentially funny word that comes out of Teacher's mouth, as though Teacher is god and he is giving an introductory seminar for getting into heaven. Lady, you may well be that amused and interested in what Teacher is saying but the rest of us don't give a damn and are just here for the transferrable units. Shut up and fuck off."
Indeed.
We talked about Dorothy Parker in class last night. If you know anything about her, you probably know this story already so skip ahead to the next paragraph. I do not know anything about Dorothy Parker so I found this to be delightfully amusing: while playing a word game with her literary friends, in which the player must come up with something clever for a given word, Parker was given "horticulture." She came up with, "You can lead a whore to culture but you can't make her think." HAH! Whore to culture ... horticulture ... clever lady.
So, I hate class discussions. HATE them. Hate them whether they involve AP students, college graduates, or city college underlings. I experienced the latter and suffered through an hour-and-a-half discussion of a three-page story. There were no epiphanies. The grandest thoughts included such gems as, "Well, I think she's lonely," and "You can totally tell she's, like, a lonely housewife?" and "She's obviously a priviledged lady but she's very lonely." Apparently, I was the only one who appreciated the political satire until the teacher said, "It's political satire." The "OOOOOooooooooooohs" resonated througout the classroom, as did the thud of my head hitting the desk. I did not contribute to the conversation.
I am so tired this morning. I woke up at 7:10 after my second snooze went off, blinked, and then it was 7:40 and I had, in that half an half hour, packed stuff into a giant safe deposit vault, tried to win a priceless necklace, and battled with an annoying woman while skydiving. I never knew I could be so productive!
edit/ I told you IKEA kills.
two years ago today: nothin.
three years ago today: nothin.