What follows isn't some official formulation by the administration, etcetera... just some words about what this humble player and admin sees going on in the game at the current time, and expressing some words of criticism, encouragement, and hope. But most of all, it is an apology.

( Behind the cut, for I fear I shall ramble at length )

Smith sits in his office. He is doing a crossword puzzle. Poorly.

He grumbles mightily, and sighs.

[ooc: I'm lazy today. No OCD threads, just specify during what period your char comes to visit, please]

Smith's fickle evil heart has abandoned thoughts of tiny ninjas.

Today, he thinks about his pirate/yardarm OTP. All the while, doing the neccessary paperwork and etcetera.

His door is closed, but his office hours are today. So those who really want to approach his administrative scariness may do so.

[ooc: OCD threads are a coming here!]

Smith has a strange smug satisified look, today. Which would be much to the disgust of everyone who listened to the radio last night.

He drums his fingers and fiddles with paperwork. He hopes students go and bother Dean Zordon today. He doesn't want his good mood ruined by teenagers with attitude. That's Zordon's lookout.

[ocd threads a-comin' ( Read more... )

Smith had back records. Smith had last nights video feeds. Smith had half an apple pie, as well, but the video feeds were the most important ( Read more... )

Smith is in his office on a Saturday. He appears to be drafting schematics of some sort.

Of what sort is not clear. But he keeps putting down footnotes involving the names "Longstocking", "Dornez", "Borkowski", and "Bernadette".

[ooc: Smith is interruptable.]

Smith sighs. He didn't want a golf cart for a mail inbox. But he had one, now ( Read more... )

Smith had locked and barred his door and ignored all possibly knocking that occured during the day. The loss of the giant white prophylactic ball of doom had the school at a distinct disadvantage ( Read more... )

Smith stares a little at the golf cart. It's starting to bother him. It's almost like it is mocking him with its presence ( Read more... )

Smith stares up at the ceiling of his office. The golf cart was no longer amusing him.

Even Morfeeuss' adventures in the Globe of Conflictart could not keep his mood up. Smith's heart is a fickle thing.

The door to the office is closed, but any man, woman, or other brave enough to knock might get a response.