Looks like somebody's got a case of the...

...of the fuck yous.

I'm crabby for no real reason today, other than I was teased on Friday with summer, with 92 degrees and humid, with pink lightening that touched down to kiss the still-naked spring field, with pea-sized hail. I watched it all from the garage like those old people who never waved to me in Mankato when I ran by their house everyday. I kept having to move back my lawn chair so as not to let the cold rain blow-in on my legs, and I chugged MGD Light, and I crossed my clean-shaven bare legs over each other. And I cheered on the storm. A line of lightening in the distance, and I point with my beer-hand and scream YEAH! WOO! YESSSS! as though the storm is obeying my commands. Then the thunder breaks through the surface as I'm screaming, as it's responding, as though we're powering each other.

Farmer Bob pulled his John Deere out of the field the minute the rain started. The plow had flipped the soil upside down, showing the brown of the soil instead of the gray dirt made colorless by the snow. With the rain, it was as though the field had put on a layer of lip gloss.

Yes, this is why I'm crabby today. I gave myself Saturday off, and as a result I worked and worked on Sunday, on lessons that I don't think did much of anything for anyone, because maybe we were all thinking of Friday.

The work for my grad program is done. Last week was hell week, and this week is tired week. No matter how much I try to think about it, I can't get over how much the sun controls my life. How, if today were 70 and the sun were winning, that life would be great. That I'd be more optimisitic about where this week is going. That I'd go for a run, sit on a patio, start a new book. But instead, I just want to eat fudgesicles. I just want to pick at my face and feel fat and let the class have the rest of the time to read.

I just need to read a good short story, I think. I just need a good short story.