Hoo boy.
Well. Today has bounded back and forth between terrific and horrific (if 'horrific' is related to 'horrible', then why not 'terrific' to 'terrible'?) about four times.
It began with the realisation that I, head cold and all, would have to get up at some ungodly hour of the morning to attend the final lectures for several of my classes. Now, normally, this is fine. I can either drag myself out of bed after some tiny amount of sleep, or make some excuse like 'I'll skip the screening and just go to the lecture', reset my alarm and inevitably miss both the screening and the lecture. Russ with head cold wanted to do the latter. Responsible Russ managed to prod the Head-Cold Russ until he rolled out of bed. This was the first good bit. After showering and trying to stop my trachea from inciting a revolution of my respiratory organs, I realised that I'd stayed in bed just long enough to miss the bus. I would now have to spend ten bucks taking a taxi to my lecture. First bad bit.
After parting with my fresh-from-the-ATM cash, the lecture itself was excellent. I'd dosed myself up on any number of things to keep me from going gentle into that good night, and was now ready to cope with sandwiches and an awesome film (Chris Marker's Sans Soleil, film #323 on my list). Seriously, mornings like these are what I do film studies for. A bunch of people that I enjoy interacting with, discussing a film that we all respected (as opposed to some others in the course that we collectively loathed. Seriously, rottentomatoes.com, 100% positive for The Sweet Hereafter? What the frak? (Also, a lot of brackets going on here. Huh.)) It was a shame that it was the last lecture, really, because I think we'd finally reached the point as a group where we could banter ideas properly. But anyway.
I then had about half an hour to print an excerpt from my scriptwriting assignment (which I haven't really done yet) because our lecturer had invited a few actors from the department to get our scripts on their feet for the final lecture. The library printer refused to co-operate when I said I wanted two copies, so I then had to run with one copy to the Honours co-ordination meeting that I was meant to be speaking at, and was now running five minutes late for. I arrived out of breath, clutching a crumpled script that was singular instead of plural, and already late to give to the actors. Bad bit number two.
I delivered some perfunctory monologue about how film Honours was awesome and the young'uns in the room would be mad not to join up. It was sincere, but I was secretly wondering how long my voice would hold out, and if I would be passing out before work. Anyway. On to find a photocopier that would take my student lack-of-funds as an excuse, and meet the actors, with twenty minutes to go, gasping and clutching two copies of the script and the complete works of Basho. But I had arrived. Good bit number two.
I don't mind scriptwriting, but it's not my favourite lecture. It tends to be pretty pretentious and unproductive, unless you count crosswords as productivity. Much as I loved watching other peoples' scripts brought to life, a lot of the people work in the same theatre companies, and have the same styles. I was waiting for mine. About two minutes in, I realised that I hadn't numbered the pages and the actors were following a different permutation of the plot I'd written. Not-great bit.
I had forty-five minutes to get to work after that, but I could catch the half-six bus easily and get there with plenty of time to spare. Which was great, until the half-six bus didn't arrive. For fourteen minutes. I arrived at the bar with four minutes before the quiz I was supposed to be running started, thoroughly expecting to be fired summarily and possibly kicked in the shins. Horrendous bit.
Quiz went okay; I wasn't fired. My voice was ragged by the end of two hours, though, and I wanted to go and crawl into bed and eat dinner while I slept. This was mostly because after four hours of sleep, I had been talking through a sore throat for the better part of twelve hours, and had eaten four small sandwiches, two cups of coffee, a slice of cake and a handful of potato chips. If my man-flu wasn't going to kill me, I was going to start digesting myself. So I went to McDonald's, spent a huge amount of money I didn't have, gorged myself, and am now feeling content.
Look out, Wednesday. Your lesbian sister Tuesday didn't take me down, and tomorrow I'll have actually slept.