It’s Over, Seriously

Tomorrow is Christmas. Presents have been purchased, wrapped and properly labeled.  Two batches of holiday cookies, neatly sealed in red & green tins are piled on my kitchen counter.  This year, I’m ahead of the game. I’ve even avoided my annual pre-xmas head cold.

So why am I losing it?

Because I’ve got a handful of students who don’t understand that school has actually ended. In a 24-hour, electronic world, the emails just keep coming.


Email: “I can’t get in touch with you. You’re not in your office.”


Unmailed Response:“I’m in my pajamas wrapping gifts.”



Email:“I’m just trying to hand in my assignment like you asked.”


Unmailed Response:  “From November? It’s almost January.”



Email:“Thank you for the extension”


Unmailed Response:“Huh?”



Email:“I missed the final.”


Unmailed Response:  “It missed you too.”


Diary of a Late Paper


Gee, he’s still working on me. And he’s typing so fast, he kweeps mking misthtakes. I can’t take it. I’ll look horrible in a “D”.  The last time I went straight to print without spellcheck, I ended up crammed into an expensive plastic folder in a showy, but useless attempt to cover up my flaws.


Okay, he’s slowing down.  Wait, what is he saying? How do you spell bibliography?  For God’s sake kid, spell check it! It’s free.


No! Not the margins. Please, not the margins. You’re squeezing too hard.  Sure, I’ll be ten-pages, but inside I’m suffering.


I’ve always been a word man. Numbers were never my thing. But if I had to guess, I think this class started 20 minutes ago.


Oh, there it is.  It’s a little glitchy, but I think I’m being Saved. 


Draft! You saved me as draft? You x!#$%^& piece of X$%67!


I hope you catch a virus the Geek Squad can’t cure because at this moment you are no better than a floppy disk. Go ahead, hit print. I dare you.


Well, there it is. I’m a cover sheet. I’m flying solo. No backup, no page-count. I heard about the cover sheet scam when I was in the big box from a bunch of foam packing peanuts. I thought those guys were nuts. I guess the joke is on me.


I’m flat on my back, staring up into a pair of smudged glasses. Focus, I think. Keep that title centered. It’s all you’ve got. My edges begin to curl as I catch the end of the cover sheet scam.

            “My printer broke. Can I email you the rest later?”

I peer off into a corner of white space and spot a row of single cover sheets making their way to the podium. Forget it kid. But just remember, I wasn’t so bad as a draft.