I’ve been having trouble sleeping. As a consequence, I’m nearly always tired. My normally irascible temper has degenerated into straight irritability. I don’t have much energy to do anything, exacerbating the situation.
I finished the first round of judgements on my batch of poetry and fiction for the South Central Pennsylvania Scholastic Writing Awards sometime in the last few days. I completed my assigned readings for the fiction, non-fiction, and art boards of From the Fallout Shelter a day or so before. Today I’ll begin reading as the editor for FTFS. I worry, with my short literary resume so filled by my school’s lit mag, that the legitimacy of my best non-fiction win last year might be called into question, though I worry more about a possible award for this year given my status as editor. I’ve never seen my work in the voting queue. I wasn’t the magazine’s editor last year. I don’t imagine that’ll spare me from side-eyed thoughts of self-furtherment, especially should I win anything this round.
The Humanities Award is open today. At least with that judged by profs, should I win, I’ll be saved the accusation of personal machinations, perhaps in favor for professorial favoritism.
I suppose moping doesn’t help. Nor does ever poultry accounting. Still, I do tend toward both.
The semester is stuttering towards a start. I barely remember the last two weeks, cold medication melding them into something fragmented and forgettable, making me feel as if we’ve only just started. The snow days keep the rest of campus from progressing much beyond me. It’s my last undergraduate one, perhaps I should be more eager to start, but mostly I want to sleep. Perhaps I’ve become sort of literary bear, subsisting on prose instead of salmon and content to sleep in my caliginous den.
Ah… the den. More on that later, suffice to say for now that I’ve needn’t set an alarm for the past few days as the sounds of walls being torn out served as well.