Dark Side

I barely made it through the end of the week -- head throbbing, devastated by the workload of seven classes at two schools plus 4 hours in the writing center, 2 1/2 of which were spent combing through ESL errors on a 90 page graduate compsci thesis -- such was my my first day back. This mustang's done been broken already. Howdy doody.

We'll diplomatically sidestep yesterday morning's shriekerific road rage, glued to the wheel amidst a 15 minute volume jam on 352, and my tardy entree to the 8 am communications class. We'll also trip lightly over my failure to work the combination lock to the classroom (thankfully the cleaning lady rescued me). To provide more bone-mashing details would needlessly depress my ego even further.

What a wonderful bundle of nerves we are, when our schedules -, the faces -, the mirror images-, change. Being at a virtual standstill robs me of substance, others swirling past, accelerating without pity.

So it was a blessing to make it back home Friday afternoon, to flop on the couch, aspirin coursing through veins, to shower and change, and then to be up here at the iMac writing, listening to Dark Side of the Moon complete, volume cranked, the music slaking my desire to zone out and dive deep. Redemption comes at the oddest hours.

Praise the higher power for this week's unsung saviors: the cleaning lady, white pills, shower heads, and Pink Floyd.