I went into the lunch room today, and all of the prickweenie men were whining because it didn’t matter how many kids they referred, their classes were just as horrible and the kids didn’t seem to be responding to their discipline procedures. It should have made me totally happy and gloaty because:
A. It’s not like THEIR hard-ass tactics are working any better than mine.
B. I’m not the only one feeling like I suck and should reconsider another career.
C. I really MUST have a target on my back if I’m not sending kids out and the Grand Royal Prickweenie still hates me.
But I didn’t. I didn’t feel better–in fact I felt worse. I felt like my job was futile and my efforts were futile, and that I should just go away and let the younger generation take over because my heart was too tired to do this any more. Of course, these feelings were exacerbated by the following things:
A. My i-Pod had just been stolen by my 4th period class.
B. The sweetest, most inoffensive child in my 2nd period class has breast cancer.
C. My 20 year old cousin is being shipped off to boot camp on Monday.
I came home, and Chicken pestered me for the deets of my day. I gave them to her. She apologized. Then I sat on the chair and napped, holding one surprisingly cuddly Ladybug, and a naked 3 year old with really sharp bones in his ass. I don’t know why he was naked. He was holding still and watching the Nightmare Before Christmas, and I got a nap, so I didn’t question fate. This unorthodox treatment worked–I no longer feel quite so old, quite so tired, quite so useless.
But I am spending my evening working on my submission packet for Bitter Moon. My odds of getting published are probably as good as getting through the school year without calling my Prickweenie ‘Dude’, but at least I won’t feel quite so hopeless as well.
(btw? I’m still knitting. Every day. I’ve got an big chunk of FO’s heading for simultaneous completion. Yes, there will be pictures!)
