The end of the term / course is just around the corner. It's the middle of Week 10; stu-dents finished their exams yesterday which meant teach-hers went home, cracked their heads against a collective wall, spilling grades of varying success onto stu-dents' hopes and / or dreams.
I failed one out of fifteen. Perhaps that should be rephrased: one out of fifteen students whose work I graded managed to botch up the exam good and proper. The probability of him passing the course is about as likely as him having brunch on the dark side of the moon with Pink Floyd this Friday... Poor bastard.
Meanwhile, the opportunity to do squat-all for the next two weeks looks like a distinct symphony waiting to be conducted. In my mind I have already picked out a tuxedo for the occasion; the morbidly obese lady, whose giant flabby ankles are handcuffed to the base of a sturdy chair, is lubricating her lucrative tonsils with extra virgin olive oil.
Plans? I'm glad you asked. At the helm of the list is a good night's sleep. Call me past my use by date, call me a candidate for prosthetic knee joints, call me Andy the Octogenarian if it'll make your day any easier; after ten weeks of fuck-all regular or prolonged sleep thanks to topic sentences, thesis statements and Tetris blocks falling under my quilt, I'm ready to nod off for the sheer fuck of being able to do so.
Yes, there will be no more need for twenty-minute naps on the bus. Yes, there will be rest.*
Apart from that, my significant other tells me there is an opportunity for the Kaufmans to drive down the peninsula and into a mansion sized shack FREE OF CHARGE. The orchestra is tuning.
I hope there'll be time to take a few snaps between now and the commencement of the next course. I know I'm up for it.
How the hell are you doing?
* I bet my seven-month-old girl has other plans.