The moment the semester ended I put on cutoff shorts and didn’t do any of my grading. Am now filled with white-hot rage whenever I have to go to campus. People keep assuming that I am there, which is baffling to me. “Will you be in your office later?” Uh…..WHAT! Then I remember it is still just finals week, rather than full summertime, and I’m only not on campus because I didn’t have any finals this semester. Still, I want to write back and simply say HOW DARE YOU SIR. Every once in awhile someone on a committee suggests meeting over the summer and I believe I see fleeting looks of horror pass over everyone’s faces, or perhaps I merely imagine these looks since they are the same looks that cross my own frowning visage. Excuse me, summer is extremely precious. I have to write two papers, an article, and three syllabi, do you think I wish to be monkeying around in my office, printing stuff out or walking to the copy room? I doubt it, dude. I doubt it VERY much. I’ve got enough on my plate just emotionally girding myself for the 700 grade-grubbing emails I am about to get next week. No, you can not move from a C- to an A by doing some “extra credit” work you have asked for after the semester is over. What on earth.
Hot Tips To Students:
– do not EVER ask for extra credit
– do not email a professor and say “I’m considering taking your class but can you tell me what the workload is”
– do not bring an assault rifle to campus and murder a bunch of your classmates
That’s it! That should not be so hard.
Yesterday I got the sunburn I’ve been fantasizing about. I’d forgotten that sunburns actually suck and don’t feel good. Today: sunscreen.
I drove to school blasting “Live Through This” as loudly as I could. The flowers are fucking popping off and the birds are going apeshit. The sun feels amazing, like my skin is drinking it up. I slammed so much coffee I felt like a goddamn superman dracula. Barreling down a farm road I screeched to a halt and got out and hopped over a fence into a graveyard so I could take a picture of a gigantic tombstone with just one word on it: DEADY
We are interested in Karl Ove Knausgaard’s hair and how he recently cut it, clearly himself, with a knife. We fantasize about him writing another 6 volume autobiography but only about his hair, his shame about thinking about his hair, his longing to cut it, the self-loathing alcohol-fueled night during which he sawed it all off in a rage with a kitchen knife, his subsequent regret about caring so little for his physical self, his subsequent shame about devoting any time to thinking about his hair in the first place.
It will be called “My Straggle”