Peace Corps

In which theresa is fucking tired.

You walk out of your office after a frustrating training session with your teaching assistant. Using a f/oss version means that you don’t know it as well as you’d like, which makes it correspondingly difficult to teach the program in a coherent manner. Instead of letting you walk home by yourself, your student walks beside you, chattering about the rest of the course, will you cover how password protect pages, and why won’t I teach them advanced JavaScript?

You smile and explain, for the 50th time, that you’ll cover basic (in)security, but setting up a secure multiple-user system is beyond the scope of the course. Your student continues, and you reassure him that you’ll teach another course in the spring, and yes, you’d be glad to introduce PHP, JavaScript, etc. Finally, you part ways and you begin the walk home, exhausted after a long day of meetings, deadlines, and asking aid organisations for money.

The air is chilly. It’s midway through the rainy season, and the heat of the summer is replaced by the cold wet. You’re not actually as cold as everyone around you. 75 degrees after 8pm is actually pretty pleasant to your thin American blood. The lady from whom you buy fish for your cat knows you so well, you don’t have to say anything. A brief greeting suffices. She puts the fish in a bag, you hand her 200 cfa, and you wearily continue.

You avoid the puddles that have turned into ponds with the ease of someone who’s been doing it every day for the last several weeks. The deceptive spots on your road, the spots that look solid, but are secret pits of mud, waiting to suck you in up to the ankle in filth and slime don’t often fool you, but tonight, you misstep and find yourself ankle deep. With a resigned sigh, you dig your sandal out of the mud, and continue trudging to your house.

Instead of stopping to chat with the security guards on your street like you usually do, you mutter a brief hello, your hunched shoulders and tired stumble ample evidence of your exhaustion. Draging yourself up the stairs, you unlock the door, and dump the cat’s food on his plate without bothering to turn on any lights. After throwing your purse on the table, you find your cigarettes and light up, standing on your balcony with the dark of your unlit apartment behind you.

The nicotine assuages any hunger (you haven’t eaten since noon) and you decide to skip the work and effort of cooking dinner. You quickly strip, set up your mosquito net, and collapse into bed, welcoming the oblivion of sleep, knowing that the next day will be equally as long.продвижение сайта

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