Showdown with the dragon last night: midterms handed back in Syntax. As the prof handed me my test, I saw it: D. It flashed across my eyes like lightning, the kind of lightning that comes out before the rain starts, hisses past your ear, strikes your little fluffy rat-dog a square blow to the snout, bounces up to knock over your favorite elm tree, rushes through your bedroom window and burns up your wedding album, breaks all the dishes in the kitchen, smashes back outside the heirloom stained glass window, thumps you soundly between the eyes with a fist full of sparklers and hisses “You will never graduate! EVER!” before fizzling out in a disappointing anticlimax just like your future. D is for Death knell for any hope of passing this class and graduating at the end of the semester.
But B, which, as I suddenly saw, was the grade I actually got, is for my Big ridiculous panic attack over nothing, my Brilliant syntactical brain, and my Bastard professor’s messy handwriting which prompted the other B, this Blog entry.
Don’t return those graduation gifts yet, kids. I’m still on track.