Syllabi

Some hours after dark, when my mother called me in to our meatloaf dinner, I suddenly realized I hadn't changed out of pyjamas. I had been brasier-less for almost seventeen hours (a fact my father would rather not have known, and yet somehow I feel perfectly safe sharing it here).
Having been awoken during the seventh hour of the morning by a sister's hair-dryer, a sound that hasn't failed to arouse in me a homicidal rage in two decades, I rolled over and plunged back into a dream that was thankfully not about sex and stayed there until just before ten. At that point I decided it was time to get up. I'm certain I cursed. Oversleeping makes me quite angry at myself.
I breakfasted on malt-o-meal cheerios while playing Riven until eleven, at which point I decided that the semester had officially begun and I was being left behind. I cracked open my textbook to write the syllabus for my class which shall commence on the morrow.
The mail lady sacrificed her poor lower spine to bring me a box full of antique paperbacks at around noon. After a good giggle at the trouble I'd put the USPS to, I took stock of my progress and realized I still had almost no idea what information was in the textbook.
At two I emerged from my Campion-steeped den for a spot of lunch. I think I may have eaten two hamburgers and some thousand-island on a bun. I had begun reading the Dixie State College requirements for syllabi, but hadn't synthesized it.
At four my father knocked on my door, asking for his copy of DUNE, as John's was missing. I had to dig through a pile of semi-dirty clothes. At that point I had translated my inner German Governess into my totally intolerant attendance, plagiarism, and grading policies. As I continued, I could now hear the Boses commence a semi-constant boom from the next room. I'll never quite understand why spice mining can't be just a tad quieter.
Dinner was called at six-fifteen, and I'd mostly laid out the reading assignments and essay due dates. After meat-loaf and garlic bread, I returned to Campion and my syllabus and embarked on the most difficult stage. I sold out. I tainted the elaborate legal and balsa-wood structure I'd painstakingly constructed with that final two-pages chunk of "required elements," like lowering the Albert Memorial unceremoniously atop a garden gazebo. It made a "thock" noise.
Family Home Evening came abruptly at eight, and I abandoned both Campion and syllabi for a brief series of spiritual moments followed by peach sherbet drowned in green apple Jones Soda.
It's almost ten-thirty, and I have syllabus burn-out. I shall frighten all five of my students off and end up jobless, or I shall find myself embroiled in some Dickensian legal squabble which will eat my twenty-dollar fortune and leave me penniless and fever-scarred (and there my Dickens-ness will stop, with my social luck), so I'd better pick out a very striking outfit.