I keep confusing school with my job. When a teacher assigns work, I’m affronted. “You want this tonight? The quickest I could turn it around is about a week.”
Fail.
I had a dream last night with a tragic ending. Someone had given me two Norcos. I joyfully popped them and then, just before I started to feel the effects, my alarm clock went off.
People think I am very funny. I wish I meant to be. My Iraqi classmate doubled over in laughter when I tried to say her name properly. For your reference, “Sabah” is not pronounced “Sabachchchchch,” (as in Channukah).
Here is a scene from our first Second Language Acquisition class today. I like the teacher. She’s two months older than I am, is Bulgarian and speaks 72 million languages. The guy on the right of the picture is my adopted son (native of Oakland) whom I wrote about in my last post. We have, so far, held to our pact to administer a hug to one another on a daily basis. He’s started to watch over what I eat. It’s hard being a thin student because the chairs are so hard.
I told Lulu about a guy here named Ishmael. “What do you call him,” she asked wryly. But I surprised her. “Bhebhe,” I replied, because in Zimbabwe they often use last names to address one another.
Good! I’m glad that there is someone who, in my absence, endeavors to shove food down your baby-wren-like proat. He sounds sweet.
I like that picture of your Bulgarian professor. It as as though she is surrounded by a maelstrom of scribbled knowledge, crooning and flapping around her shoulders. You know, that old chestnut.
One of my Captcha words is “csonka”. What is a csonka, pray tell?