I lack inner discipline. Or I’m too hard on myself. One of the two.
I didn’t run Wednesday because of [no one really wants to know why]. I spent the rest of the day worrying that I wouldn’t have enough to say in class or that I wouldn’t finish my article, which is due tomorrow. One of the two.
I finished my lecture notes/PowerPoint this morning, inserted a gratuitous dog picture, wrote three of [my last name]’s laws of research writing, posted them out of order, didn’t have the right article to show the kids, let them go slightly early, didn’t worry too much that they looked bored because it was not the most fascinating information but it was chock-full of things they needed to know, and if they didn’t learn that shit and flunked their thesis it would not be my fault.
I had coffee with my friend, went home to finish tomorrow’s paper, but collapsed instead. Then I emerged and examined my life. Class didn’t go too badly. Editing is not finished, but I think I have enough time to finish tomorrow. I seem to remember how to tutor, and I seem to be doing it okay. Last night’s appointment signed up for an appointment with me tomorrow.
And, by god, I sat down and wrote 1,000 words. Or rather, I wrote 811 words and will complete the remaining [mumble] numbers as soon as I finish this post. You can make me work harder than I work over the summer, you can strike me with [physical complaint that no one wants to hear anything about], you can make my hair turn some godawful shade between red wine and cotton candy, but you can’t take the
sky writing from me.