I got my teacher-course evaluations back. I commend my friend Mike for doing well. May his morale last. My results roughly match the effort I put into teaching, that is, below average. I scored 4.0 and 4.2 in my two courses the first semester I taught; this time around, 3.6 (on a 1-5 scale). Piss poor. But the score for last semester belies my feelings towards the English 102 curriculum, which I can only describe as "poisonous" and "deadly," the latter in the phrasing of misterskank.
Who commented that my wayward blog ecriture (i.e. writing) communicates feelings of longing. That's accurate. I want a lot of things I don't have right now. I want to be the best at something; perhaps everybody has this psychological need. I'm smart, relatively speaking, yet the labors of academic literary criticism are brutal. Writing journalism or a novel sounds easier, although I do get edification out of doing a smart interpretation of a piece of writing. And my writing is clear enough. I just told my wife, "We've been together for two years and have never been on the same page, and I don't see things changing."
So it's good that I'm going to counseling again. I'm not physically or emotionally depressed by any means, but I seem unable to derive pleasure from the things I love. That's a wicked formula, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night. --Nietzsche