Enough already.

Depending on how you count it, we are

(a) less than two weeks in, or
(b) less than three weeks in,

and I have already had it.

We're talking about

(a) the spring semester, or
(b) January.

Both of which seem pointless to me. I'm assuming my attitude will improve, eventually. Like, in April.

Me: Having just said, I will always do the whole job, it's not like I can now just say, Okay, I only want to write poetry now.

The historian: (sympathetic silence. We're walking the dog. Bruiser is nosing the snow like it's super interesting. But it's not, Bruiser. It's just snow. And it's stupid.) I remember when you started the semester, you said you were going to write every day...

Me: ...and I'm not writing every day. I know, I just have to be gentle with it. It will get better, right? We'll just do that f!*&ing assessment in two weeks because I planned the f!*&ing assessment. [bitter chuckle...] Etcetera. [pause for extra bitter sauce:] And, ugh, I'm not going to AWP in the year I published a book because I'm teaching a class on effing Fridays.

The historian: (sympathetic silence. Bruiser still sticking his snout into cold places.)

Well, I could probably go on like this until forever or the vernal equinox, when the toxic fog over my outlook will no doubt clear. Maybe sooner. Maybe we just need some vegetables in the house, and the time to go shop for them, and a quiet day, and a change in the schedule weather, wherein the outlook will be clear horizons, with no meetings in sight. I.e., spring break.