Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Fini.

Or, as Caesar said, I graded, I graded, I graded. And now my butt is sore. And also my wrists.

I wish I could say that I feel better. What I feel is beaten into submission. By numbers. Just FYI, Canvas gives me several numbers I can choose among when administering grades. Don't think they aren't swimming in front of my eyes right now. Don't think that my soul is not suffused in an anxious, dread-marinated state, made of numbers that are close but not exactly the same, any one of which could translate into a grade.

Did I succumb to easy grading? Sure. Did I nonetheless give plenty of grades that people might bicker with me about? Hells yes I did.

Will I be able to sleep tonight?

Well, will I?

And will the oven-installer guy come tomorrow to my very kitchen and install me a double wall oven? He damn well better.

That is all, America. Students: if you wanted a better grade, you should have done the work. You know what I'm talking about.


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