Lack of Sleep

Group therapy is best accomplished late at night, horizontally, and naked.

I'm glad, so very glad, for good friends who understand how very much I love Darkside, who refuse to sleep with me.

Mua-ha-ha: psychology in action.

Having a test today in Bird's class during the second hour. In the first hour, he finished up the presentation on Chapter 7 (one of the chapters on the test), and opened up the one for Chapter 8, which is not on the test.

I raised my hand, and gently suggested that since 8 was not to be on the test, and being a psychology teacher he should know this, that the material from Chapter 8 would cause interference with the things we'd just learned from Chapter 7; perhaps we should have the test sooner, rather than later.

He had to think about that one for a little bit. I was right, and the whole class knew it.

Consequently, we are having our test ten minutes sooner than we would have, especially because the next chapter covers Easter Island in the first slide, and he wants to spend quite a bit of time covering that. He'll just have to talk a bit faster our next class meeting.

Baroness Babble thanked me; we'd been talking about that, among other things, yesterday, which was what gave me the idea. Everything I can do to improve the class for everyone...

Headaches...

After the test, my sinuses rose up in rebellion and gave me a headache. I had an hour for sitting in the cafeteria with Darkside, and I was miserable. I fished out allergy meds, and, cursing, took them. Didn't seem to help; the headache gained light sensitivity. I was eventually sent off to class, where I gradually felt the decongestant properties kicking in. That and the spaciness.

I spaced through the next class, crocheting a snood. I finally got my hands on the right caliber of cord and hook, and it looks to be going well. It's about the size of the palm of my hand so far. This has just become my new busy-waiting project.

Walked Darkside to his next class. We discussed the garbage-accumulation properties of purses, and the reason that I have toothpaste in mine being that I am just waiting for him to fall asleep so I can pull the classic facepaste prank. He told me that should I ever do this, I should expect the same in retailiation, though perhaps he'll just spray my face down with whipped cream.

There were martial arts. He head-butted me, leaving me with a reprise of my earlier headache, and both of us with round red marks on our foreheads.

The exchange "Shouldn't you be leaving now?" "As you bloody well wish." has been rated "Would you please not say that?!"

and the response, "Okay, I luv you, buh-bye!" is not really much better.

Darkside had to get home to oversee home repairs. I've got half an hour, roughly, before my last class of the day.

Unplug allergies == unplug brain. Hmm. This is the nice sort of wrapped-in-cotton-wool-snugly sort of unplugged, though, not the scary stratosphere-rocketing balloon-disconnected. My whole body feels not quite there, instead of just my head. Since otherwise I'd be feeling the pain of up-too-late-last-night, I'm just fine, thanks.

Cursing.

I spouted off Shane Simpson's ( curse )

at Darkside today when demonstrating where I learn my swearing from.

I'd been cursing my headache, and I'd said "Bloody ow. Bloody hell. Ow." Darkside laughed and told me I'd been hanging around him too long, and I told him that he was a good role model for cursing; my other examples were FatherSir: "God Damn Son of a Bitch!", Mama: "Shit!", Votania's general sailor mouth, and Shawn's use of Shane's curse: "You bowlegged bald-headed..."

Darkside had never heard the "bowlegged bald-headed" string before, and was interested. I really must ask FatherSir what GrandfatherSir's cuss-chain was.

Meme: Free Oleg!

The American craze on prosecuting terrorism and anything even vaguely smacking of it got off to its start for me a few months after the Halloween of 1995. Oleg, an older student in my drama class, had come up with an innovative Halloween costume. Using a vest with a few road flares and wires strapped to it, he was a disgruntled postal worker. The costume was clever, delightful, politically sharp, and, according to administration, not appropriate for school: please take it home.

Unfortunately, Oleg forgot the costume in his gym locker, and it remained at school until a fellow student noticed the suspicious-looking item and reported it. West Valley High School of Fairbanks, Alaska went into a complete lockdown, with everyone ordered to remain inside a room with the door locked until administration could figure out what to do. Finally, all the students and teachers walked through the -20F and below temperatures over to the neighboring Hutchison Career Center until the bomb squad was done examining the item.

As the story goes, Oleg heard the rumors that it was a bomb scare, and came to the sudden Awful Realization that he had forgotten about his Halloween costume. He told administration, and it turned out that the supposed bomb was in fact his costume.

Oleg was suspended for two weeks.

I saw one sign at school, posted on a window, calling out to the students, asking them to show support for Oleg and protest his suspension, which was a complete overreaction, by wearing a shirt that said "Free Oleg!" to the assembly on Wednesday.

When I came to school on Wednesday, the school was already buzzing. There were students wearing the shirts, and more sporting quarter-sheet signs with the slogan. Students who hadn't come to school with a sign of their own already drew a sign, or photocopied a friend's. The assembly was disrupted at several points by one young man standing up and yelling "Free Oleg!" at intervals.

Oleg himself did not argue with the school officials' decision to suspend him, admitting that he should have remembered to take the costume home.

Oleg's suspension was reduced to one week.



If you spot injustice, make a fucking fuss. They listen.

http://azurelunatic.livejournal.com/876147.html

Boy oh boy.

What has it been, these last few days? I'm just, like Ari, on. I'm seeing waters part around me, feeling the whirls in my wake. About four feet of water above my head; I can see the light; endless depths below my feet; I see the upsloping beach and know that if I kick down, I'll be touching the still sunwarm, waterwarm sand, with trickles of cold still seeping in from the chill places below.

Unlimited imposition of my Will on things around me is a Bad Thing, a very Bad Thing. I Will things to stay cool, remain good, get better. Been avoiding the place inside myself where Darkside stays, so as to avoid invading his privacy.

Been coming down with bits of dizzy that have very little to do with what I have or haven't eaten. Not sure where it's all coming from. Wrote one of the medium things to someone who needed to hear it: in summary, the Powers that Be say that if you're falling, fallen apart, and you're trying to hold yourself togther with the utmost desperation, your closest friends already know it. When you start to lay things out so that you can start putting yourself back together, it'll start showing to people who don't know you that well. Your friends will be the ones cheering you on that you're finally getting it together again; those who are wishing you back the way you used to be are wishing you back into the old broken self that it's finally too painful to be anymore.

Maybe someone else can also benefit from that insight. I call 'em as I see 'em, and this time, I evidently called it, from the feedback I got. I really am not responsible for writing some of that; when I write things like that, initially, something inside my mind goes a little blank, and the fingers keep on with the typing, and I come to myself after having posted, and wonder, "What the hell was that?" and remember that I am, after all, a medium, and even with the shields I'm still... well... yeah.

Note to self:

It wouldn't be too much trouble to perhaps poll the pockets of the garments in question before tossing them in to wash, to check and make certain that the load of laundry is depopulated of pens?

When my penchant for snappy dressing leaves my pens in white shirt pockets, rather than in my current subtle theme of black on black over black, I shall be in for a world of hurt, or at least inkblot.