Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning.
"And then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left-hand side . . ."
"No?" said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. "Really?"
"Oh, yes," said Marvin, "I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens."
"I can imagine."
Arthur is feigning interest in what Marvin is saying. To be polite, I guess. Marvin is simply difficult to be around. He complains all the time. The universe is a bleak and miserable place in Marvin's head space. It's not Marvin's fault, though. He was programmed that way.
I, on the other hand, was not programmed to emulate the state of depression. I can't blame a team of AI specialists for my continually dark moods. It's just the way I am, like it or not. I have an affinity for pessimism, I guess. That is mostly the result of being tired a lot.
I am nearing the end of the semester. Tons of grading to do. I know that all of you out there are tired of hearing my complaints about the end-of-semester crush, but, unless you've experienced it as an instructor/professor, you really have no idea of the stress and exhaustion. There's nothing like, unless you count near death experiences.
Tonight, however, I am conducting a poetry workshop at the Joy Center in my hometown. (It's an artist retreat in the middle of the woods--there's no better place to write.) I'm celebrating the 200th birthday of Walt Whitman this month. (Whitman was born May 31, 1819.) So, it's going to be Uncle Walt, me, and a bunch of poet friends, hopefully. I've been looking forward to this event all week long.
So, trudge along with me for a few more days in this blog. I promise it will be getting better. Grades are due by noon next Tuesday. So, a weekend and a day. Then I will be in a much better state of mind.
Until then, Saint Marty has Walt Whitman.
I am nearing the end of the semester. Tons of grading to do. I know that all of you out there are tired of hearing my complaints about the end-of-semester crush, but, unless you've experienced it as an instructor/professor, you really have no idea of the stress and exhaustion. There's nothing like, unless you count near death experiences.
Tonight, however, I am conducting a poetry workshop at the Joy Center in my hometown. (It's an artist retreat in the middle of the woods--there's no better place to write.) I'm celebrating the 200th birthday of Walt Whitman this month. (Whitman was born May 31, 1819.) So, it's going to be Uncle Walt, me, and a bunch of poet friends, hopefully. I've been looking forward to this event all week long.
So, trudge along with me for a few more days in this blog. I promise it will be getting better. Grades are due by noon next Tuesday. So, a weekend and a day. Then I will be in a much better state of mind.
Until then, Saint Marty has Walt Whitman.
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