A Mug’s Peculiar Smell, Checking, and Semester’s End

This mug, assumed to be newly-washed
smells like someone’s
armpit.

As I sip cold water,
I am reminded by spice
and curry.

And this [pseudo] poem sucks.

——-

And the stack keeps on getting taller. The tower of babel, built out of my students’ papers, is taunting me as it stands motionlessly on my table. I look at my red ballpen and see that its ink is almost drained. I guess I need to buy a new one later.

——-

One week to go; the semester is about to end. I’m supposed to finish all of my lectures next Thursday, but I think it would be best if I could end it earlier, like Tuesday earlier. I’ll be using the vacant time from Wednesday to Sunday (!) for consultations.

Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc.

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