After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes

Yeah, so...if these last few days have taught me anything, it's that I am obviously not made for chronic pain. Which is why, I suppose, I should avoid it (if at all possible) for the rest of my life, unless I want to do nothing but mope around like a dip/sleep/be good for nothing much.

Anyhow. Tomorrow I go back to school, teach three Canadian Film History classes in a row again, with no built-in break--which is actually illegal, as Mom has often pointed out to me, but oh well: I don't want to fuck around any more than I have to. The launch on Friday was tiring, but I'm glad I went after all. Last night Mom, Don Owen and I were even able to go see Michael Connolly read at the International Festival of Authors; he's very American, nice but laconic, and seemed uncomfortable (which is probably why they decided at the last minute to interview him "with" John Billingham, a British comic-turned-author who's less fun to read, but a lot more fun to listen to).

But now it's still raining and I'm still pretty much exhausted, not to mention that I feel creaky and ache-y, as the other strains I've put on my body while trying to compensate for my neck filter to the top of my consciousness. And now I'm going to go have breakfast, take more drugs, make myself presentable. I dream of eventually being able to be useful again.