Grading Finals

I snapped in a committee meeting this morning. I had been up since dawn, given a Shakespeare final, started grading said final (ahhhh blue books. how I hate them), and had 78 left to go. The meeting included a "catered" lunch of inadequately portioned sandwiches (too small for lasses who'd been chugging java since 6), diet pepsi (Grrrrrrrrrrr), and a lot of humanities types who relish the sound of their own voices. (Megarita has no such flaws. I am a veritable oracle who speaks only when the spirits of truth and wisdom move me.)

I rank low on this committee's totem pole, such as it is, so I tried to keep my head down and nibble on my wee sandwich and make it last as long as I could. But this one nasally-voiced creature wouldn't stop inserting her goddamn expertise into the meeting and disagreeing with everyone. This is obviously her moment to shine. I should pity this small's woman's tiny life and smile benignly, but I really wanted to fling my scrappy crappy sandwich on its stale roll at her, nay, to cram said roll into said creature's gaping maw and silence her.

I wish I had, actually, since now my tamped-down resentment is burbling over into my poor students' blue books. "So you think you know what a pun is, jackass?!?! Do you!?! DO YOU?!?!"