Thursday, Sept. 11, 2003 - 11:44 p.m.
What�s felt like an enormously positive and creative new phase tripped and fell flat on its nose today.
First, I�m sick, or I might just have allergies. I�m sniffling and sneezing, with that familiar spacey feeling and a bit of a sore throat. My cat is bored with me. I am bored with myself, too, and I do not like it.
A few nights ago, tired but unable to sleep, I started reading the most mindless book I could find: Stone Alone, Bill Wyman�s autobiography of the Rolling Stones. L half-jokingly pressed it on me when he was getting rid of things prior to moving. It offers some painful writing, especially during the childhood sections. A sample:
�When Albert began dating a girl, I made up a foursome with them and her girlfriend, Anne. She was fifteen, still at school, but had the biggest boobs in town. We began dating regularly.�
But, having begun this book, I cannot stop. I must read all 645 pages. Perhaps it is the boredom culprit.
Or perhaps the sickness is the boredom culprit. It�s so perfect here, finally cool enough to walk to my office without sweating, perfect for sleeping with all the windows open, and I am grumpy that I can�t smell it.
I just took some medicine. About a year ago I bought some Goody�s Headache Powder for the cheapness and campy little package, and I had one packet left. It�s horrible stuff; dumping a pile of sour powdered aspirin on my tongue does not make me feel very good. So this time I dissolved it in water, but that only prolonged the unpleasantness.
Second, I am having a crummy week of teaching. I feel like I just stand up there and babble, I assigned crappy readings that don�t make for good discussion, and I don�t know the names of everyone in my later class yet (and it�s getting embarrassing to ask, this being the fourth week). And the more I feel lame, the lamer the students get, which makes me feel lame. I hope we can break out of this mess next week. I do not know how I will get through tomorrow. I will have to wake up early to make my lesson plan, because I have put it off all day. I have also not finished grading the pile of journals I want to hand back tomorrow, either, because they are boring. In previous classes I�d have one or two boring journal writers; this semester it�s nearly everyone. They are timid and identical and impossibly dull. But how do you tell someone their inner thoughts are boring? You don�t. You wait for them to get homesick and drunk and heartbroken and jaded, or to discover a passion for Foucault (ha!), and you hope the change will be reflected in their writing.
Third, and most importantly, I am broke in a way I have never been broke before. It will end Monday; it�s not like there�s no way out. But two days ago I counted out the quarters and dimes from my change jar and found I do not have enough money to buy cigarettes through the weekend. As of right now I have three left. Three days ago I wrote a check for some vegetables, some cans of tomatoes and garbanzo beans, and one discounted bottle of wine, and that check might bounce.
I�ve been back to teaching for almost a month, but my first paycheck was devoted entirely to debts accrued over the semi-unemployment of the post-master�s degree months. This next check will be devoted to the same, but will at least free up enough room on my tiny credit card ($500 limit!) for me to begin using it again.
This is not fun to hear about, I�m sure.
Now I have two cigarettes left.
I have lived on miniscule budgets often; in fact, my new adjunct instructor salary is making me feel quite wealthy in theory, but these past two weeks have been really stressful. It�s not like poverty, obviously: it�s going to end, I have plenty of food here, there�s enough cat food to last until Monday, I�m only responsible for myself and one feline�it feels silly to complain about, in most ways. I�m not poor. I�m just broke and nervous.
But I�ve had to ask L to pay for my beer at band practice (practice without High Life being unthinkable), and I�ve been to his house many times in the last month without paying for any of the food he�s cooked me, and he�s taken me to dinner a few times, and it feels weird and unbalanced. I�ve been not-so-sneakily using another friend�s internet service � he�s given me permission (or he did, long ago), but I have certainly been abusing it, and I daydream often about Monday Monday MONDAY when I�ll be able to hand him a snappy wad of cash and apologize. I daydream about Monday a lot. I have my bills written out and ready to send as soon as I can buy stamps. I will search the town for the perfect tuna steaks and take them to L�s house, along with a brand new bottle of gin. I will take my poor car to the doctor and get the power steering hose it�s needed since January, get a full tank of gas for the first time in several months, and be able to get out of this town at long last. Perhaps I will go to the beach. I will buy a plane ticket to visit Chicago and Madison in November. This materialism is unsettling; I do not like that I daydream about the Things I Will Buy. But oh, to drink good coffee next week, and to buy some cheese.
This would have been a good night to call Carla and have a beer, buy some ibuprofen for my throat, forget about the journals and the lesson plans until the early morning�but those are luxuries I have to put off until next week. I find myself eyeing the vermouth in the fridge. This means it is time for bed.