This could be the longest week ever

At least for now anyway.
I've got to cover a couple of classes for a friend tomorrow, one at 9:00 and another at 12:00. It's been late night after late night, and I just got home at 10:00, yet I've still gotta eat, shower, etc. I'm doing a fair job of keeping up with my American Lit readings, so after Thursday, it should be gravy.
Except for the conference paper that I have to finish sometime before the Super Bowl.
I've got options as to where I want to party for the big game, but I haven't made up my mind just yet as to where I will present my staggering figure.

One thing's for sure:
There will be alcohol involved, probably on a large scale.

My set, aka my homies, have concluded our plans for Little Rock. It should be a fun experience that teaches us all a lot. Plus we get to pretend to be academics. I can imagine the registrar for the event eyeing us suspiciously as we slap our "Hello, my name is _____" tags on. Probably she will be caught between calling the police to have us removed from the premises or just following us around with a video camera, ever hopeful that "America's Funniest Academic Conferences" can find a home on Fox, PBS, or maybe one of those channels that everyone gets with their cable but nobody watches. It would probably be better if we didn't have to actually write. Therefore, I'm considering looking into an interpretive dance routine with Andi.

We'll call it "Repressed Angst in the Writing Center."

Or maybe I'll just re-enact a Civil War battle. It's still up in the air.

Another Night When I Should Already Be In Bed

I've been sitting at this friggin' desk since about 6:00 or so, and I don't think I can handle much more of this nonsense. After spending an hour or so reading Shakespeare and relevant criticism, I was forced to write a paper which should have been about four pages. In my normal manner, however, I have circumvented this requirement by placing way too many lines between my header, title, and beginning paragraphs. I think I'm about two and half pages total. I'm a complete lazy ass when it comes to writing, especially when it involves something of waning interest.
Now I have to put together some type of lesson plan/discussion questions for a Intro to Lit class that I can pass out to students tomorrow (Tuesday) for my initiation into teaching lit this coming Thursday (what a hideous sentence). I am excited, but I have been beaten down by the comments of a fair number of professors who winced when I told them I would be teaching Steinbeck's The Chrysanthemums. They then related horror stories involving their own failed attempts at teaching the acclaimed short story, generally during their earlier years of teaching. They tried to give me good advice. But I get the feeling there's a bet going on somewhere in the department concerning me and absolute failure. Oh, well.
Like a guy I used to know always said . . .

Two tears in a bucket . . . fuck it.

It's been a mantra of mine for the last 10 years or so. At the very least maybe someone will take pity on me and buy me lunch or something.

I divulged the creation of this blog to a friend of mine today (the only good secret is a shared secret -- with some things anyway), and she was asking for the address/info/whatever. I'll probably give it to her soon, mainly because there are few things less fulfilling than writing stuff that nobody reads. But once she reads it, then others that I know will, too. I don't know if that's good or bad, but then again, I think that's partly why I'm doing this anyway.

Larry gives me strength. He doesn't talk much though. Perhaps he needs a blog to help him open up.

What did you say, Larry?

Larry, you're crazy!!

Wow . . .
This is like the second post.

I have an ongoing bet with myself that I will give this up soon.
But I'm trying to prove myself wrong.
Today has been a complete asswhip. I did a lot of crap this weekend that I didn't feel like doing, but sometimes it's difficult to deny the feeling of obligation. Instead of that, I should have been getting ahead on a lot of the readings that I am supposed to be working on for grad school. But I am a persistent procrastinator. I am infamous for my ability to underplan. Planning is for those people who are either really anal or really bored. Plus it takes all of the fun out of being irresponsible.
I've got the feeling that I'm perched on an edge, ready to slip one way or the other. I think I may decide to be depressed for a few weeks, just because it seems like it would be a lot easier than trying not to be depressed. Amazingly enough, I have very little if anything to be depressed about . . . yet, I am still fighting the urges.
Sometimes I use it as an excuse to withdraw from others, for no other reason than to avoid them.

Go figure.

I find it rather odd that I am doing this, simply because I generally revel in my secretiveness. But like any good secret, it is not a great deal of fun to keep it to oneself. Perhaps I was unwittingly coerced by friends who label me as "not liking people" though they admit I am fun and personable. Confusing, eh?
Anyway, I figured this would also be a good opportunity to begin the practice of writing, one which I hope to make a profession one day.

I guess this'll do for starters.