Paper Writing and Heavy-Handedness

Paper is now done.

It was quite an adventure yesterday. First I had class (Restoration Literature), and we were discussing Fielding's Shamela, a satire on the moralizing Samuel Richardson work Pamela. Fielding thinks Pamela is a sham.

Anyway, that's really an irrelevant setup. About twenty minutes before the end, someone walked out of class, and then in sight of the door collapsed. The gasp came from behind me first, then the professor jolted over to see. Only her legs were visible from my vantage point, shaking. It turns out she's epileptic.

Two or three people, accompanied by the professor, go out there to help. Most of the rest of class, including me, sits there patiently. There wasn't much I could do. I know a little first aid, but ROTC guy already knows that and was out there. They needed someone to call, but someone got their cell phone out first. It doesn't seem decent to become an audience. So we sat and waited. Finally I started doing some math, which Richard scoffed at, "Though it's only because I'm jealous." Finally paramedics came and we finished the clas off by describing the final exam. Even if we'd had time to discuss literature, there was too much tension and concern to do so.

Then lunch, then writing paper, then Women's Studies, then the paper. I'm midthought in the fourth of fifth essays I wanted to describe and discuss, and had just gotten past a difficult point, and was really flowing. Then BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP MROOOOOOOOOOOOWR!

The fire alarm, the one they put IN MY ROOM, the one that is at ear-cringing levels, the one that is close to ear-bleeding volume, goes off. So I frantically upload the paper to the web, a whirr of clicks as I cover my ears with a t-shirt. Then I gather my papers, run to the door, twist the knob, and pull. The door rewards me with the knob coming off. Baffled, I try tugging on the bottom of the door to get out. No avail. Now the fire alarm is really getting on my nerves. Good thing it's probably not a fire, but... I really don't want to stay in here. So I start trying to get the doorknob back in. After some twisting around, it falls into place. But I can't pull it anymore. So I pull at the bottom of the door while I twist the knob to open the door, prop it open while I get my papers, and then relocate to the computer lab. Finally I finish, just in time for Wyrd.

So I get there, and we play a couple of games (Munchkin and Once Upon a Time). Then in the break I run my hand along the grain on the table we're playing. Ow! I pull my hand back and look at it. There's a skin flap on my palm, near the index finger. Leslie immediately keys in on this. "Is it bleeding?" "No, not yet... oh, yes. Yes, now it is." She goes to get her bandaids, and while I'm washing it off, someone (I'm guessing Fiona) hammers down the cause: a solid stable with the top broken off, so that there are two metal points coming out. It's alright now, except that it's tough to keep a bandaid on there. There's tape around my hand to hold it on, which of course makes it look worse than it is.

And today is the last full day of classes. I can finally take it easy. It's far easier to study for exams, even if they involve the same preparation as writing a paper (essays), because the information's all there. There aren't any classes, any conflicting and/or invisible assignments that will spring up on the horizon. This is it. 3 hours a day of preparation isn't bad at all. That's a morning, or an afternoon, and not both of those plus part of the evening.

I wonder what it's like to work a job where there's no homework, where at 3, 4, or 5 PM I'd leave to work more the next day without worry during the intervening hours.