Still fighting a vicious jaw infection after dental surgery, I dragged myself to three out of four classes today and managed to remain more or less conscious in each of them.
You know it’s bad when you go to a class for the first time in three weeks and the gal sitting beside you says, “I thought they kicked you out of school!!! So are you ready for the test today?” Wait… ah… test?
Every time I tell myself to suck it up and stop being melodramatic about how bad I feel, I walk into a wall or forget the word for “lunch.” Well, so maybe root canals aren’t so bad. Three well-placed injections, a lot of shoving and scraping and drilling, and a few hours later you’re on Vicodin and sound asleep on the sofa. Dreaming of attack penguins and midterms. Well, it could be worse.
The problem could be bigger than a root canal. I didn’t get really worried until T.S. Eliot’s poetry actually started making sense. 8 a.m. En 505–Modern Poetry. If narcotics don’t do anything for pain, at least they’re pulling the modern poets a bit closer to home.
Blue guitars, games of chess, blackbirds, Phlebes… perhaps I need to go on a very long bike ride sometime soon. Adieu, blue GPA. It’s been nice.