balancing plates
i'm trying to do so many things. and a few get lost by the wayside. i needed to have this book review turned in on april 5, but i couldn't get it. too complex. too long. too much to digest, i didn't feel i understood ("reclaiming the local in language policy and practice", suresh canagarajah, ed.). so how the hell was i gonna explain it to others? in a peer review journal, especially? they would send it to some profe to read, she's just gona send it back and say "what is this, written by some grad student?" and it will turn out that, yes, it was written by some grad student. on deadline. balancing many many plates. a few well balanced, a few about to spin off and smash, huevos rancheros and all, onto the grimy tile floor. that's the floor of the screen of the kitchen of the restaurant of my brain, in case you aren't psychic and had not divinado my metaphor. i'm thinking of the tables as my projects, i keep putting in orders and what cmes out is pretty close, i gotta scramble to get it all to the right place. and not forget the quirky requests --
"bring me two full glasses of coke, one of them with no ice, each time i need a refill" --
"put the same amount of cheese, but none of it inside, all the cheese on TOP of the enchilada" --
"an extra bowl of just pico de gallo, but i'm allergic to onions, so no onions" [so can i get away with picking out the onions or do i need to chop up new pico myself?]
"don't you guys have any AUTHENTIC mexican food?"
"can i substitute french fries, and can i get them baked or something instead of fried?"
so i get it all delivered, figure out the details eventually. but there's always that one plate, that one table, i just screw it all up. write off the tip, just try to get that family of norten~os ricos out of here so i can seat someone more appreciative.
when really, ya basta. all i want is to see my girlfriend. i'm sweet on her.
i'm trying to do so many things. and a few get lost by the wayside. i needed to have this book review turned in on april 5, but i couldn't get it. too complex. too long. too much to digest, i didn't feel i understood ("reclaiming the local in language policy and practice", suresh canagarajah, ed.). so how the hell was i gonna explain it to others? in a peer review journal, especially? they would send it to some profe to read, she's just gona send it back and say "what is this, written by some grad student?" and it will turn out that, yes, it was written by some grad student. on deadline. balancing many many plates. a few well balanced, a few about to spin off and smash, huevos rancheros and all, onto the grimy tile floor. that's the floor of the screen of the kitchen of the restaurant of my brain, in case you aren't psychic and had not divinado my metaphor. i'm thinking of the tables as my projects, i keep putting in orders and what cmes out is pretty close, i gotta scramble to get it all to the right place. and not forget the quirky requests --
"bring me two full glasses of coke, one of them with no ice, each time i need a refill" --
"put the same amount of cheese, but none of it inside, all the cheese on TOP of the enchilada" --
"an extra bowl of just pico de gallo, but i'm allergic to onions, so no onions" [so can i get away with picking out the onions or do i need to chop up new pico myself?]
"don't you guys have any AUTHENTIC mexican food?"
"can i substitute french fries, and can i get them baked or something instead of fried?"
so i get it all delivered, figure out the details eventually. but there's always that one plate, that one table, i just screw it all up. write off the tip, just try to get that family of norten~os ricos out of here so i can seat someone more appreciative.
when really, ya basta. all i want is to see my girlfriend. i'm sweet on her.
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