I will let NO ONE dictate my pace.  EVER.

On campus, in the adjunct cell, with my “lunch” if you could call it that.  Haven’t told the department yet about my 1A, only ‘cause I wanted to come directly here to write, but I’m more than ever motivated to go down to one class, or only accept one additional course if it’s right after my early ‘5’, me sure of this right after the meeting I just had with English 100.  Students shared some stories about dramatic and some traumatic events in their lives that taught them something.  Why would I keep going as an adjunct taking whatever assignments are just leftover for me?  As I wrote earlier, I’m deciding I deserve more, I deserve better.  I’m moving closer to that perfect world dad and I talked about at Monti’s that one night.

Listening to the Hutcherson station, or channel, whatever, again.  Eating my trail mix, the first course in my extravagant adjunct lunch.  Spoke with a full-timer just a bit ago, in her office grading papers, so miserable and vocal about her frustration with the students in their submission of an assignment— a letter to someone they admire.  “I mean, how hard is this?” she said to me.  Part of me agrees, well no all of me agrees, but the other side of my brain wonders why she has all her eggs in this basket, teaching?  Why not do something else if it makes you so miserable?  Why doesn’t she set her own pace, her own rhythm, decide to only play the music she wants to?  Why do so many of us so quickly surrender, give up fighting for what we want?

Going to tell the department now.  No 3-5PM English 1A…

Done.  And she was fine with it.  Not that I was worried or even care.  It’s what I wanted to do.  How will I recover the funds on which I’m missing out?  I have several ideas…  That I don’t have time to catalogue at the moment.  My mood, elevated.  I feel in control in a way I have never as an adjunct.  I turned something down— or, went back and said no after saying yes to an assignment which represented all they had to offer me.  The usual leftovers.  The shit.  The shit these full-timers don’t want to deal with.  I just.. can’t believe I did that.  Is it okay to say I’m proud of myself?  I rarely do, so it should be okay, right?  “Ha ha!” I want to go out in the hallway and fucking shout.  “I’m not teaching shiiii-iiiit…  I’m not teaching shiiii-iiiiiiiiiiit!  I do what I waaaaa-aaaaant!!” Like a child.  That’s what I need to be, careless and free like my kids.  Jackie who jokes all the time, delighting in all minutes, then my sweet little Emma who coos, smiles, tries to wrap her little baby arms around daddy.  This is the right choice.  This is the choice for my story, the story demands it, and I demand a better story.  This is a start.  The adjunct life and the way I used to live it just taking whatever was offered to me is now, FINALLY, over.  I’m in control in a way I haven’t been since, well, I don’t know.

Now onto the Cheddar Goldfish.  I told you.. adjunct lunch.  I wasn’t joking.  Glad I left the cafeteria line.  Would have spent at least $7 there, where at the bookstore I walked out under $3.  $2.77, if I’m of precision this afternoon, which I am, more motivated than I’ve EVER been.  Opening the second trail mix packet.  Bored with the fish.  Sip sparkling water…  Want to tell everyone, everyone I know, like with the students today…  Tell your story.  Change your story.  Write and re-write your story.  Whatever you want doesn’t have to stay a ‘want’.   I mean, how hard is it if I, the adjunct, did it?