I wish I had more to report today, but I don’t.  I could speak of the massive headaches and heartaches and the disgust with humanity and gnashing of teeth that comes with being a teacher — doubly so a teacher of high school seniors, some of whom have failed and will as a result not graduate — at the end of the year.  But I won’t.  Partially for reasons of confidentiality, partially because I’m a softie at heart, but mostly because if I spend another instant thinking about it today I might just have to kick one of my cats, and my cats don’t deserve it.  At least, not today.  Not that I’m aware of.

Disclaimer: I would never kick my cats.  Hard.

Instead, a reflection.  I’m at 70% complete on the Project.  Fascinating.  I’m far enough ahead of schedule that I could significantly scale back my daily goal and still finish ahead of my goal of early August, but of course that defeats the purpose of goals.  No, I will keep on pushing and finish probably in early July, which will be fantastic, assuming of course that things don’t fall into the wood chipper over the summer.

In other news, things may fall into the wood chipper over the summer.  They already are.  With all of this end-of-year crying and wailing and begging and pleading going on, it’s been impossible to achieve my super sekrit goal of 1200 words a day; in fact, I haven’t written 1200 words in over two weeks.  1100, sure.  But there are some days when it’s fingernail-peeling agony just to make my goal of 900.  Somehow (and that banging sound you hear is my forehead knocking the wood desktop to bits) I have managed not to miss that goal yet, though I fear that day may come this week.  I will do my best, but I think I will allow myself not to feel bad about it considering all the extracurricular worry that is swimming my way up the stream of sharknado my seniors are drowning in.

Also, there is the not-so-insignificant, no-longer-tiny-on-the-horizon speedbump called Sprout the Second which is looming like an old-school seamstress.  (See what I did there?  Looming.  AHHHH, I’M SO FRUSTRATED THAT I THOUGHT A HORRIBLE WORDPLAY JOKE WOULD MAKE ME FEEL BETTER BUT IT DIDN’T, IT WAS AWFUL AND I REGRET IT I’M SO SORRY PLEASE MAKE SPROUT THE FIRST FALL ASLEEP SO I CAN RELAX FOR A FEW BLESSED MINUTES BEFORE SLEEP CLAIMS ME)

Yeah.  I’m going to be a dad, again.  Which is more or less equal parts amazing and terrifying, awe-inspiring and awful.  (Why, by the way, does awful — full of awe — have a negative connotation?  It really shouldn’t!  English is funny!  STOP ME THINKING ABOUT WORDS)  She should be here on the 29th, but really, any day could be the day, and on that day, whichever day that may be, everything will change.  Again.  I can’t say I’ll be able to keep up my writing schedule for the Project or my writing schedule for the blarg.  I can’t say I’ll be able to keep up with my running schedule either, which could by extension bork everything related to everything that keeps me even-keeled (or at the very least, consistently off-kilter).  I fully expect for everything holding my life into any congealed imitation of normality to explode in a supernova of poop, barf, and tears (some of which will belong to the infant, most of which will likely belong to my wife and I).  I need to save that thought about a supernova of poop, barf, and tears, clean it up, and recycle it somewhere.  That’s a keeper.

What I’m trying to say, dear reader, is that the storm clouds, they are a-brewin’.  I’m going to do my best to weather the storm, but my priority is going to be the novel, so if anything suffers it’ll probably be the blarg.  On the other hand, I will probably have much more blarg material once sprout the second is here.

Ah, life.  With one hand she giveth, with the other she strangleth.  No, I’m being facetious, though I do like that I was able to invent the word “strangleth” on this day.  There is nothing that is anything short of awesome about the baby girl my wife is about to bring into this world, and if my writing has to take a hit on that account, it’s a hit I’m willing to take.  I just hope I don’t bust.  (Get it?  Because it’s a card-playing metaphor and life is one big game of chance and PLEASE STOP ME FROM THESE HORRIBLE PUNS.)

So yeah.  Life.  Here’s to it.  Let’s drink until we can’t see straight, then write about the visions.