Resolved:

My newyears resolution for this month is to stop not sleeping. Therefore, it is midnight, and I am in bed. Of course, in bed with the computer is how I've been spending at least 75% of my at-home time lately (for reasons involving post-break-in security and the strategic use of radiators, not just laziness), so it doesn't necessarily mean much. I do have my mouthguard in so that counts for something.

Tomororw morning I have to go back to deal with my little shithead again, which I'm not looking forward to. Especially since the hobbit implied that the cheating was my fault because I hadn't had my student make flashcards--a criticism I accept up to a point, but that point is several miles away from vocabulary lists in the bathroom. Anyway, I don't really take the cheating personally, but it does sour the whole relationship.

I've been trying to figure out why I hate one of my classes so much. I feel like the lone asshole; someone else actually told me after class that it flies by, whereas today I think I was aware of every individual second, and spent most of the time alternately doodling and writing "hate it hate it hate it!" and other insightful comments in my notebook. The class is like storytime (the professor mostly just reads out loud from the book), but if it were actually storytime that would be great--after all, the book is one of my absolute favorites ever, and I was too angry at the class to reread it. But she stops every sentence or so to explain things to us, like that there might be something Freudian about the lighthouse. And sure, this is silly and it's a waste of time, but it shouldn't make me livid. I think it makes me livid because I struggle so much over whether this whole enterprise of reading and talking about what we read is worthwhile, and I hate confronting an instance where it clearly isn't.