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Oh, late, late Wednesday. Today was not too terribly wicked. I am snotty and coughing, a bit, but I really had fun today in my classes and the night wasn’t terrible. I only had one ODD kid get all up in my grill, and I was proud of how I responded. Or didn’t respond, rather. I’m proud of the fact I didn’t call him all the names I was thinking and walk away shouting. Good job, me.

The only really poemy thing I’ve gotten all day is this little ditty on the fact that I’ve gotten sick a lot the last two years. It is because of surgeries, I’m told, by the people with the stinkin’ badges and important letters after their full names, but I still don’t really want to accept that. To me, being sick and not having control over my body feels exactly the same as recovering from those surgeries. It’s always my mind shouting at my body to do the exact opposite of what it is going to do in that moment. “Get the fuck off the couch! Go wrestle your daughters!” “Nope. Not Gonna”. My body has Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

Gotta poem that, quick, and get to bed.

Body Compromised

There are those who say the mind is control, but they are wrong. Your immune system can take over at will. It is the network you cannot escape, and though your mind knows you are stronger, knows you should be able to move it with your mind like a Jedi, you cannot. These cells play every position on the field, and change at will. Truce is never the aim, and when you stack it all up, all the blues and positions, all the schedules and timetables, all the appointments and deadlines, the ledger with the dollar signs and the overwhelming desire to chuck it, the ledger, right out the window, things get wobbly, and small hands clutch your calves,

and suddenly your grading is the 52nd priceless porcelain teacup balanced atop your neatly pinned head as you spin on the ball of one bare foot

and try to spot.


Okay. No pretty picture to accompany tonight. The wireless is being weird. Goodnight,  you Wednesday readers. Thinking of you on Thursday.