My own personal algorithm.

It's January 9, the people. You know what that means--time to do the ninth blog post of the year.

There comes a time in any "Blogging Every Day in the Year 2015" project--say on the 9th day--when a person, a blogger, finds herself saying, well, what now? Because while the mind is a fertile and inventive place, maybe the mind might not feel up to a witty discussion of why the person, the blogger, has watched Pitch Perfect innumerable times, or a thoughtful expose of why she, the blogger, is not reading very much at all.

It's at times like these--say, the 9th day of January--when a writer might have recourse to the riches of Google on any topic. Perhaps the writer might Google "good topics for blog posts," just to see what turns up. Well:

from HubSpot's Blog Topic Generator

You can refresh the generator and get slightly different topics, using the same nouns (shoulder, fatigue, party). Questions like "What will fatigue be like in 100 years?" and "The Ultimate Cheat Sheet on Party."

Forthwith:

10 Quick Tips About Fatigue: 

1. how about a quick nap with the dog? 

2. maybe lay around a read a book. 

3. but first pick a book to read. 

4. will someone please bring me a snack, because I am too tired to get it myself. 

5. weeks before semesters are extra long and fatiguing. 

6. fatigue, the word, comes from the French fatigue, weariness. Also specifically: the labor of military persons (1776). 

7. I'm still wearing earrings, but I am lying down. Could someone take out my earrings? I'm kind of tired. 

8. how about a quick nap with your dog? 

9. we have about 90 premiere movie channels this weekend, excellent for this reclining position I'm currently occupying. 

10.  [too tired to think of a tenth quick tip]

I would imagine that in 100 years, fatigue will look pretty much like this: prone, accompanied by a remote, bookless, with a canine companion. Maybe in 100 years I will be able to change the channel with my mind.

Several things that would make my life more inspiring than it currently is.

1. The semester could be closer to over.
2. I could feel more motivated in the meantime.
3. I could win a prize of some kind. Any prize, really.
4. My kitchen could be cleaner.
5. There could be fewer puffs of dust and dog hair in the corners and under things.
6. I could have a sparkling social life.
7. There could be a new (or new-to-us) sofa to facilitate #6.

I took a new poem to my writing group a couple of weeks ago. One of my fellow poets summarized the argument of the poem this way: "I read this poem as saying what a lot of Lisa's poems say--'I'm so lazy.'" Uh, ouch! And so sadly true. So:

8. I could write a poem that isn't about feeling lazy and unmotivated. Or I could write this:

Open Letter to the Rest of the Semester:

Rest of the semester, why do you seem so long to me, at this darkening part of the year? Is it because you are constructed of type, words, electronic bits, compilations of documents stacked, physically or digitally, against my doorjambs? Is it because, though the days are shorter, the nights are longer? Is it because I must now bundle up to withstand your cold, slow breath on my neck?

Rest of the semester, I am sick of how you recur, every October and every March. I could blame myself for how dragged out I feel--shouldn't I be self-actualized? Shouldn't I be better at doing my job? Shouldn't I buck up and get to work? But I'd rather blame you, Rest of the semester, because you are a big, hulking Representative of Institutional Learning, with your files and clips, your endless requests for feedback, your constant evidence that I haven't done enough and will never do enough. It is all your fault.

Rest of the semester, I would rather go to sleep and dream of a preposition-correcting-algorithm, as I did last week, than face you. I would rather clean up my kitchen and do my laundry. I would rather be a housewife with the "problem that has no name" than a community college teacher facing you, my problem with a name, Rest of the semester. Rest of the semester, take your action somewhere else. What is your damage, Rest of the semester? Rest of the semester, give it a rest. I really, really mean it.

Sincerely, lisab.