We had the last Reading II class today. It wasn't even a real class; the only reason to physically show up was to turn in the essay checklist. Ms. L wasn't even present; she's out of town and her daughter showed up for her. We met in groups to discuss our essays (due in electronic from on Thursday, so the semester isn't technically over yet). As I haven't written a word of mine, I didn't receive much input. I read the first drafts of two of my groups and made what I hope were helpful comments. People started leaving about thirty minutes into it.
I left feeling down again. Perhaps I ought to go back on medication; it helped. Something indefinable and niggling gnawed at me. I suppose it was the flirting of loud, boisterous, but large, bluff and sexy-accented TA (he's from South Africa; American women just melt when they hear English spoken in overseas accents, which I've never understood, having grown up listening to my British father and uncles all my life), contrasted with my own sort of, I don't know, lack of an impact.
A woman ten years older than myself asked me if I wanted to get something to eat after class, and I honestly have no idea if she meant anything other than precisely that, but as I say, feeling down, I declined and left. To be brutally and disconcertingly frank, if she had been a Young Pretty Thing I probably would have eagerly accepted, but this particular woman, while an okay person to talk to (mildly amusing, not annoying or an idiot), I find about as attractive as a tree, so there you have that. Au fond, je manque de profondeur.
Pearl Jam has a two-CD greatest hits package. I was in college when their first album came out. I have nothing of note to show for those years. My novel didn't get published. I'm wasting my vacation. Oh look, another article about Auric. Maddening Angel has no time whatsoever for me. I replay scenes with her in my mind and think about whether (and how) I may have misplayed my hand. "I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." Indifference or rejection has ever been my lot. "And miles around they'll say that I am quite myself again." And young men die on foreign sands as I write self-indulgent, pretentious bullshit.