You Will Feel Sorry For Me and Send Me Drinks

I was going to call this "I know why the caged Curmudgeon sings..." but I didn't want to rain on the power Angelou's metaphor...

Oh my lord, it is so sunny outside, and I'm stuck in the office.

And none of my colleagues are here, and all there advisees are. And they all need forms filled out and new schedules to be produced out of thin air.

And all of my old students want me to read drafts of their what-not before the end of the term.

And the mean nun next door through a tantrum because I had the music up to level 2 on my .mp3 speakers again. I could almost hear the lyrics when I was putting books on my bookshelf that looks like it's ready to do a half-gainer off the wall again.

And stupid Blogger won't let me add the image I want to this post.

And I haven't had any caffeine today. Every time I stick my head out the door, a student appears. I begin to suspect I am the mole in a very bureaucratic version of "Whack A Mole."

Oh, oh, oh, for this term to end.