Better, now - things all got sorted out last night, and I trekked to the Willage and slept so, so well. No nightmares, for the first time in a long while. And today! The lecture on Lord Byron was brilliant, and Ali told us stories about mean things he did to his neighbors as a kid (the kids in his neighborhood, when mad at someone, used to yell, "Get off my property!"). And I submitted to Headwaters, since Lori gave me an extended deadline and a glare that made me incapable of arguing, and Jana and I went to the meeting with Bill Haggard about the firing of Maggie Weshner, and the administrators kept thanking us for our concern and admitting that, no, they've done nothing to deserve our trust. They don't seem too concerned about that, but I guess that's how they were able to fire her in the first place. Anyway, it's heartening to see so many people worked-up about this, and I'm jazzed about tomorrow's lecture walk-out. Ever since Anne Ponder shut down dining services in order to staff her Mountain Picnic that one time, I knew she was not to be trusted. I'm not really gratified to have this kind of proof, though. Also, I found that my therapist has a Facebook account. February has been full of first times, this year, which is just how I like it.
At Headwaters, we conceded really easily about which writing to accept - until we hit one about Walt Whitman, which we were divided on. Marshall's is in, and so are mine, and a lot of other pieces that I love, love, love. I called my mother excitedly to tell her, and she was not at all happy to hear that my family is not allowed to read my stories. Seriously, though? I'm protecting them. If they only knew. . .
Okay, another crisis night is in order, apparently. Or else, the crisis is over but the aftermath is due. At any rate, I have to go. Tomorrow is not going to be framed by this shit, I swear. Only one class, and then writing, and then work, and then writing, just like that. If I avoid people, then I can't go wrong.
At Headwaters, we conceded really easily about which writing to accept - until we hit one about Walt Whitman, which we were divided on. Marshall's is in, and so are mine, and a lot of other pieces that I love, love, love. I called my mother excitedly to tell her, and she was not at all happy to hear that my family is not allowed to read my stories. Seriously, though? I'm protecting them. If they only knew. . .
Okay, another crisis night is in order, apparently. Or else, the crisis is over but the aftermath is due. At any rate, I have to go. Tomorrow is not going to be framed by this shit, I swear. Only one class, and then writing, and then work, and then writing, just like that. If I avoid people, then I can't go wrong.
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