In a Tumbler

Finally, I can freely write.  Be the kind of writer I need be, right now.  Still with a good surplus of coffee before English 1A.  Just walked outside to make a call, now back in the adjunct cell.  Saw two full-timers in break room, eating whatever they brought to campus to eat, and now me here in this cell, thinking of plans— no, not plans, but action.  Immediate material action.  Can’t wait to get home and have some of the pasta Alice made last night.  I can finally eat and I’ve never been happier.  Fucking food poisoning.  Still can’t believe I survived yesterday.  I was sure when I landed on Dutcher’s campus, and I mean sure, that I was headed home early.  But, somehow, I survived.  And I very much credit that early conversation I had with those two Baltimore guys.

The coffee’s working, no doubt, in gymnastic jaunts.  But now I’m restless.  Need a walk.  Across campus maybe to the car, drop off some of the nonsense in my backpack then come back here.  All I can think about is that pasta.. the red sauces, its depth and color and texture… the meatballs.  Should I finish the Zin I opened the other night, or should I open something else— OH SHIT, forgot to post my reaction to that Zin on the blog.  No worries.. will do tonight.  What other wine would I get?  Or should I open one of the remaining Lancasters?  Should conserve cash, but I have a shitload of cash in backpack.  Tips from weekend, from private tastings and bar interactions.  Fucking money, always the issue, with everything.  New biz plans aim to remedy such, but still it remains on the writer’s mind and is a dote in every decision, literally EVERY one.

Hunger knots my attitude, thoughts.. do I get a snack or wait?  Afraid if I wait for the pasta I’ll be with another core ache, not like the food poisoning angle of the night other but similar and equally as fervent in its ambition to pain me.  What would I get for a snack, thought?  (All adjuncts think this at one point in their career, full-timers too but it’s not the same…)  The famine compromises my freedom, the freedom I now feel—  I’m no longer liberated, now it’s the opposite, instead of having no appetite I have now too much of one.  Just want to be home with my babies and wife with that goddamn pasta!  Just messaged Alice:  “Can’t wait for your pasta!!!!!!!!  SO.  HUNGRY.  GOING.  TO.  DIE.” Hoping to get a laugh from her, in my comedic seriousness.  Seriousness garnished with tongue-and-cheek whimsy.

Now it’s oddly quiet in the halls, throughout this building.  Heard a door close but no accompanying commentary, like how the full-timers laugh so loud like they own this building and how they share with other how idiotic their students are rather than discuss success stories and shared remedies.  You know, something to do with actual teaching.  (What a fucking idea.)  Think the food poisoning forward new sight into my bravado, my character.  Situated in this adjunct cell, with lively cells about my circuitry and total anatomy.  But I’m hungry.  GOD. DAMN. IT.  I’m hardly free, but enslaved to my ravenous rumbles.  But, this is new, this sensation and seated liberation.  Everyone should get food poisoning, I’m thinking.  Yes… work a full day while at the equator of its symptoms.  Quiet in halls maintains itself, targets my peace as well.  Free?  Hardly.  Lean on coffee.  So very me, ai-je raison?  Now, uh…..