That was called love for the workers in song

Well, here I am again. I got used to the damn thing, and it's cheaper than therapy.

I had a pretty good final week of school. I didn't get many end-of-year gifts and nothing fancy, but I did get plenty of compliments, and that's all I expected. J's parents bought me lunch on the last day. L2's mother said she wanted me to move up to first grade so he could have me again next year. My secret favorite Q's father said he had initial concerns about a male K teacher, but "getting you was the best thing that could have happened to her."

Most of the week was taken up with visiting the first grade classrooms; having the kids write cards for the summer birthday kids; and doing easy final-week things like finishing "This year I learned..." in writing and "How many days are left in school if ten are crossed off our calendar?" type word problems in math. The very last day I told the kids that the most important thing I wanted them to remember all year was this:

Be nice to people who have less talent or power than you do.

I hope it stuck.

***

I hadn't been taking my Happy Pills for the last ten days, through a combination of laziness, sickness and the accompanying bizarre sleep schedule, and a vague interest in seeing what would happen. I think it was a bad idea, and I'm starting again. As Friar said: "If you had diabetes, you wouldn't want to go off your meds just to 'see what would happen,' would you? If you need them, you need them." I think he's right.

Most people, for example, would not have been totally depressed, as I was, on Sunday. Saturday, I'd spent a pleasant evening at Hangout II, joking and talking with good friends (Friar, K, L --- this guy) and a few people I didn't know, including a very attractive, drunk woman who hung on me and kept kissing me and pressing my hand between her legs. L flicked a lit cigarette into my face hard at my request. I drank a shot that seemed to be made of Tabasco, and possibly bacon. We went back to Friar's house (where I'd drunkenly and erroneously thought I'd left my car). Friar promptly passed out in his bed, so drunk girl and I hung out in his living room, blasting music until 4:00 a.m when we collapsed on his couch.

Sounds fun. Was fun. So why the depression? If you have to ask, you'll never understand. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing fantasy from reality. Or rather, fantasy from the probable.

I'm not sure I should blog about such personal stuff. It makes me introspective. I feel like it helps me sort my thoughts into a semblance of rationality, but you know, I think when I instead pass over the personal in silence, that helps me not be so jittery about the past. Which is probably more helpful.

Oh yeah --- and I should have done my assessments last week. Like, finished Tuesday. It's no surprise to people who read this that I'm a procrastinatin' fool. So it'll be a late night. Oh well, nothing new.

Also, I may have ringworm. Awesome!