iamb what iamb. iamb an island.
Lordy. Epic grump this morning: yesterday's endless stream of obliviously disorganised students radiating annoyed entitlement had generated a fizzing, homicidal rage which seems to have carried through the night. I woke up at 5am with a pained yelp as my calves cramped, and drove up to campus swearing a blue streak at almost anything foolish enough to cross my path. (Traffic! pedestrians! infelicitous billboards! sudden flurries of leaves!)
Then Making Light did an open poetry challenge thread, including an array of vintage and lovely puns as well as well-scanned, witty verse from the site's scarily literate commenters, and the git of figgling, no, wait, fit of giggling has cured me, even if only temporarily until the first student idiot tries something.
I have to say, Orson Scott Card's latest homophobic rant hasn't helped the grump any. I've always been a bit ambivalent about his writing, but this kind of thing is giving me a strong disinclination ever to read him again.
Last night I dreamed I was trying to do a gym routine, in an unfamiliar and slightly down-at-heel gym where the attendants were slowly taking away the machines and locking them up in a back room, inexorably reducing my options and eventually bringing the routine to a grinding halt. As they did this a a horde of small children waving balloons poured into the room from the other end. Extremely frustrating. I think my subconscious is guilt-tripping me about my conspicuous lack of gym activity for the last two months. I say to my subconscious, deal! I'll go back when I've overcome the latest dose of post-glandular languidity. Sigh.
Then Making Light did an open poetry challenge thread, including an array of vintage and lovely puns as well as well-scanned, witty verse from the site's scarily literate commenters, and the git of figgling, no, wait, fit of giggling has cured me, even if only temporarily until the first student idiot tries something.
I have to say, Orson Scott Card's latest homophobic rant hasn't helped the grump any. I've always been a bit ambivalent about his writing, but this kind of thing is giving me a strong disinclination ever to read him again.
Last night I dreamed I was trying to do a gym routine, in an unfamiliar and slightly down-at-heel gym where the attendants were slowly taking away the machines and locking them up in a back room, inexorably reducing my options and eventually bringing the routine to a grinding halt. As they did this a a horde of small children waving balloons poured into the room from the other end. Extremely frustrating. I think my subconscious is guilt-tripping me about my conspicuous lack of gym activity for the last two months. I say to my subconscious, deal! I'll go back when I've overcome the latest dose of post-glandular languidity. Sigh.