Day 43. "Love In the Time of a Small Cold"

The aching. I believed it to be my heart, as it sits alone in a metaphorical jar. I've put it there because each time it beats it brings my soul nothing but sand and emptiness. If my emotions are to be a desert then surely this oasis is dry, and all that is left behind is salt from the dried puddles of my tears. I have carved this salt into the likeness of all who have ever hurt me. A crystalline army akin to terra cotta soldiers to guard me against opening myself to vulnerability again.

Or perhaps its just a small cold. Either way, the pain is bearable, but only just. I came to work today so that I could hear the tiny whimpers of surrender as one at a time each desperate grade seeker abases themselves and with barely a hint of shame admits that they have not turned in all of their work.

"Please Mr. Petraitis. Father says that if I don't have at least a 112 average I may have to give up my private rail car and travel to school on the back of our domestic. Surely I would have had the work in on time, but ChatGpT, in it's struggle to embrace humanity, chastised me for cheating and now it just sulks on my computer like a disappointed virtual parent. As for the Jigsaw assignment I would have had it in, but as you may know I was recently given command of a small fleet of ships and the entire crew has scurvy, as I have selfishly turned all of the citrus into smoothies and then poured them upon the ground in front of the sick sailors in order to motivate them to work harder. Alas, this was unsuccessful and I am forced to put off my invasion of Canada for several weeks. In the confusion I did not turn in the assignment before it closed."

This happened all day. There is something tragic about carrying forward a grade that ends with the number 9, when you realize you could have turned in just one more assignment.