With the drive and ambition,
The zeal I feel
This is my time...
Has the Perrier gone
Straight to my head
Or is life sick and cruel, instead?
--- The Smiths, "I Won't Share You"
I like to think of the word "want" in the title line above as having mainly the British meaning of "to lack."
Here's my Wednesday schedule. No work. I slept in and had a leisurely breakfast. What a complacent sybarite. Then I tooled up to State School for my first class, 12:30-3:15 p.m. It's entitled "Art, Music, and Physical Development." It's taught by Ms. M, and emphasized integrating art into all subject areas of teaching. Over the course of the, uh, course, we will be expected to learn how to play the recorder (third grade flashback!), write the lyrics to an original children's song, and --- ugh --- sing. I have no musical talent, and my voice is so excruciatingly off-pitch and atonal, it has been known to render musically-inclined people deaf or alcoholic. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to it; I've already written many children's songs of my own for The Job. The beginning of a great adventure, as Cranky Uncle Lou says about an entirely different subject.
Having nothing to do until my next class at 7:00 p.m., and State School being too far away to justify driving back home and back again, I texted Ram to see if she was on campus. Yes, I know I vowed not to do that again, but there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for my behaviour. It's that I'm a stupid romantic idiot and a glutton for emotional punishment.
Anyway, I texted her, and met her at the library. I took care of all my math homework while she wrapped up a paper, and then we ate lunch together. I told her that whenever she contacted me, I had dreams about her the next night, and that I was still infatuated with her. And if this foolish outpouring of misplaced affection surprises you about me, than you must surely have just stumbled upon this blog today.
Well, look. I'm not a total jackass; I didn't rhapsodize on her in some starry-eyed soliloquy as if in a shitty romantic movie's lame-ass climax; I made these points within a fairly stable, reminiscing conversational context. Still and all, her reaction was less than heartening. Instead of being flattered and her old affections stoked, she took it all in stride, remarked without inflection that she seemed to have penetrated my subconscious, and ended things as before. That is to say, she presented herself as vaguely wanting to be friends (no longer anything more), with me, certainly with no inclination to change her current romantic attachments. "Well," I said rather weakly, "your loss." She smiled sweetly. "Yours too," she replied.
My emasculating humiliation complete, and feeling like Tim on "The Office" (before the happy ending of the insanely brilliant and touching Christmas Special, of course), I stomped off to my final class of the week. Diagnostic Reading, was described to me by several school acquaintances as a mountain of work, and Dr. D, the teacher, as a real mule-driver. Despite their warnings, the first day proved rather pleasant; Dr. D was there to greet us as we came in, explained the syllabus in detail, and sketched out a few of the long-term assignments we'll be doing (including some hours of tutoring in reading, which we must arrange ourselves). There does seem to be great deal of work ahead, but so far there's a rather convivial atmosphere.
Wanting to wash the stench of rejection away, I drove to the Hangout, where Friar, bless his completely wrong-headed good intentions, tried to build me up with flattery and encouraging talk. It didn't take, but I stayed for longer than I'd intended, chatting with several of the old barfly buddies. Waitress T called me and made me laugh with some friendly conversation, and I played some games. I didn't get home until past midnight, which was poor planning on my part, given my new work schedule. My night didn't end there; however, the Dog's saga will have to wait until tomorrow.