I'm baffled at how quickly the summer goes. It springs, flies, shoots past. It starts with such promise, such languor.
The speed of summer cannot be calculated. It's Einstein-ian. It collapses, folds, triples in mass, whatever.
I literally got an email from a departmental administrator asking for a rough draft of my syllabus for Fall.
A rough draft? Do you think I'm working on several drafts of that thing? I'm changing the classroom number, folks. I'm changing the dates. I'm doing what I did last semester. You can't stop me. You can't make me grow or learn. Oh, I'll do different patter in class, but I'll be goddamned if I'm going to be NEW and fresh.
If you want new and fresh, hire someone else. Oh, wait, you can't. You're stuck with me. And me with you.
Lord save us all.