In which it’s not just the legg

You may remember that I picked my current classroom at least in part because I was told that the other room frequently was prone to heating and cooling issues. I am therefore just a little pissed to let you know that it was approximately a hundred and forty degrees and infinite fucking humidity in my room all day today, and by the time sixth and seventh hour– so far, my favorite and least-favorite group, back-to-back– rolled into my room, I was utterly and completely without a single iota of patience after five hours of being sweaty and putting up with the funk of dozens of fourteen-year-olds, some of whom were, incomprehensibly, wearing sweaters.

Sixth and seventh hour didn’t go well. I will take some– perhaps a majority– of the blame, because by that point I was just completely beaten to death by the heat and the humidity and it kills me. But one way or another they didn’t go well.

Anyway. That’s not the story. Here’s the story: during my prep period I walked into the office to check my mailbox, and I happened to walk behind my assistant principal and another teacher, who were standing at a counter in the office. The office staff were also in place. I nodded and didn’t say anything and walked back to where the mailboxes were, and then heard my name over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” someone was saying. “I think it’s Siler.”

I am not joking when I say I had been sweating for four straight hours at that point, so my initial reaction was basically pure terror.

“Christ,” I said, recovering the contents of my mailbox and walking back into the office. “I’ve been sweating like a pig all day. Do I smell that bad?”

I hear my principal laugh and realize he’s in the room as well. Dandy.

“No,” my AP says. “You smell good! There’s something–” and here she takes a deep breath– “kind of floral that just wafted past us.”

I take a whiff. I can’t smell anything Goddamn floral. All I can smell is axe body spray and funk, which is how I know I’m in a middle school.

“I promise it’s not me, then,” I say. “I don’t wear cologne and I promise you any odors wafting off of me right now are not floral. It’s a hundred and forty in my room. That might actually be the smell of death.”

I’m not certain my bosses know if I’m a good teacher or not yet, but at least they think I’m funny?

Proof of slightly alive

Monday night, when we went to bed, we decided to leave a window open to produce perfect sleepin’ weather in the room. Tuesday morning I woke up with a cold– one of those things where there’s no getting sick process, just oh, I guess I’m sick.

I got home from work on Tuesday and went to bed. Immediately. I woke up at 3:45 AM and called in sick then went back to bed until about 45 minutes ago, when my family got home and I moved into the living room. I doubt it will be more than another couple of hours until I’m in bed again.

Whee.

In which post titles are really hard sometimes

My wife and son both had Friday off so I took it off as well, and the three of us have mostly lazed around all weekend, which is not something I’m going to complain about.  We went to the zoo on Friday– and I strongly recommend going to the zoo on a Friday afternoon when a rainy morning and a weekday means that not many other people are out and about.

Which is fine.  Because for the most part the world spent all last week going to hell– even beyond the obvious stuff in Washington, which I just don’t have the fucking energy to even talk about.  Wednesday night, one of my co-workers at the furniture store died.  He was in Indianapolis for his cousin’s funeral, which was enough of a shitshow to begin with, staying at his sister’s.  He went to sleep and didn’t wake up the next morning.  He was thirty-one fucking years old, and I doubt the cousin whose funeral he was in town for was much older.

Nobody is supposed to die in their fucking sleep at 31.

His roommate also works at the store.  He told me the other night that the last thing Griff said to him was that at least his grandmother, who passed away all of a couple of months ago, wasn’t alive to have to attend the funeral of one of her grandkids.  And now she’d have to go to two.

I can’t pretend we were super close.  We were co-workers.  I liked the guy quite a bit.  But his funeral is tomorrow in Evansville and I’m not going, because I already have to be in Indianapolis for a conference from Wednesday through Friday and the con on Saturday and I just can’t squeeze in a ten-hour round trip drive today and tomorrow.  But it’s got me fucked up anyway.

This post wasn’t supposed to be about Griffin.  I meant to talk about video games a bit; I’m still trying to beat Dark Souls 2 (getting closer, especially if I decide it’s okay to ignore the DLC) and I haven’t played Spider-Man in like three weeks because I got abruptly tired of it like a day after my initial impressions post.  The combat consistently annoys me and I’m not convinced it’ll get better.  I’ll probably bring the PS4 with me to Indianapolis, though, so I’ll have time to play when I’m not at the conference.

I dunno.  I got too much fucking serious in the world right now.  For right now gabbling about video games is where my head’s at.  At least I thought it was.

We’re all gonna die

Earth_on_Fire_Animated_global_warmingOctober 3rd.

5 PM.

Eighty-eight fucking degrees outside.

And they turned off the fucking coolers in all the buildings because “it’s Fall.”

It is a miracle no one died in my building today, for a variety of reasons.

Not dead yet

Two eleven-hour shifts in a giant building with no air conditioning when it’s 95 degrees outside down.

One to go.