Painful Boogers That Graft to the Skin Lining the Inner Nostrils
Wednesday December 4
I subbed for Schiff today. Her student teacher, Roger Gitlin, did all the teaching, so I got to sit at a desk and read the paper. Scientists think they may have found a sheet of ice in a deep crater on the moon's south pole. They can't see it, but radar bounced off that area much more quickly than expected, consistent with its reflection of ice. They've launched another probe to Mars, too. I also read the chapter Supercilious Sacrifice in Paradise. Amory's willing to take the fall for his ex-girlfriend's more upper class brother. His rationalization is that because he has no family to shame, it's less scandalous for him to appear to have violated the Mann Act. Fitzgerald's preoccupation with distinction--Shirelle came home and robbed me of all my thoughts, paltry as they were. I read some student stories, one about a pediatrician testifying in court, another one about how a woman deals with getting dumped, a trippy one about a lady who doesn't want to talk to her sister on the phone because she'd had colitis, and another one still about a snobby Englishman and his travel woes in Paris. I smoked a while ago. Shirelle got an invitation to a party, but I don't want to go. I definitely must tread tonight. My car is suffering. Old Kathy Ravell asked me did I hear it skipping, it needed new plugs, she said. "That's troublesome," I said, and she got all exasperated and she said, "I could do it for you." She sounds a little like Daffy Duck. The paint is peeling off the hood, too. The speedometer and tachometer don't work anymore. It's loud again. It doesn't always start. It overheats. Ugh. I just took out the trash. I'm not breathing well these days. I've had painful boogers that graft to the skin lining the inner nostrils. I'll do my fifteen and then I'll tread and work on the crime dialog until nine and I'll finish Paradise tonight, the last fifty pages. An apple is bruised on the file cabinet. I havent' gotten the mail yet from the guy with the internet cable kits. The kids will figure it out. I have to check my e-mail. I made and ate a turkey sandwich with mayo and gravy and melted cheddar cheese. Shirelle put all the tapes and CDs in the hall closet. Ron gave us some gumball machines. I read something Linda gave us that said all the other arts, painting and music and sculpture, utilize color or sound or resources already at large in the world; writing deals with words that come strictly from the narrator's psyche. I'll tread from seven to eight. What'll come next in the crime dialog. They discuss the impossiblity of pulling off the crime, and then the possiblity, and then I'll have a page and a half and be done with it. I can't find the green paper with the court-ordered instructions for fullfulling my penance to the People. Yeah.
I subbed for Schiff today. Her student teacher, Roger Gitlin, did all the teaching, so I got to sit at a desk and read the paper. Scientists think they may have found a sheet of ice in a deep crater on the moon's south pole. They can't see it, but radar bounced off that area much more quickly than expected, consistent with its reflection of ice. They've launched another probe to Mars, too. I also read the chapter Supercilious Sacrifice in Paradise. Amory's willing to take the fall for his ex-girlfriend's more upper class brother. His rationalization is that because he has no family to shame, it's less scandalous for him to appear to have violated the Mann Act. Fitzgerald's preoccupation with distinction--Shirelle came home and robbed me of all my thoughts, paltry as they were. I read some student stories, one about a pediatrician testifying in court, another one about how a woman deals with getting dumped, a trippy one about a lady who doesn't want to talk to her sister on the phone because she'd had colitis, and another one still about a snobby Englishman and his travel woes in Paris. I smoked a while ago. Shirelle got an invitation to a party, but I don't want to go. I definitely must tread tonight. My car is suffering. Old Kathy Ravell asked me did I hear it skipping, it needed new plugs, she said. "That's troublesome," I said, and she got all exasperated and she said, "I could do it for you." She sounds a little like Daffy Duck. The paint is peeling off the hood, too. The speedometer and tachometer don't work anymore. It's loud again. It doesn't always start. It overheats. Ugh. I just took out the trash. I'm not breathing well these days. I've had painful boogers that graft to the skin lining the inner nostrils. I'll do my fifteen and then I'll tread and work on the crime dialog until nine and I'll finish Paradise tonight, the last fifty pages. An apple is bruised on the file cabinet. I havent' gotten the mail yet from the guy with the internet cable kits. The kids will figure it out. I have to check my e-mail. I made and ate a turkey sandwich with mayo and gravy and melted cheddar cheese. Shirelle put all the tapes and CDs in the hall closet. Ron gave us some gumball machines. I read something Linda gave us that said all the other arts, painting and music and sculpture, utilize color or sound or resources already at large in the world; writing deals with words that come strictly from the narrator's psyche. I'll tread from seven to eight. What'll come next in the crime dialog. They discuss the impossiblity of pulling off the crime, and then the possiblity, and then I'll have a page and a half and be done with it. I can't find the green paper with the court-ordered instructions for fullfulling my penance to the People. Yeah.
posted by johnz at 10:24 AM
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