bunker diaries pt. 4

10.14. Bunker galley. e. e. cummings was born on this date in 1894. I met with the trainee this morning. Her motives are murky. I sensed that she was being deliberately obtuse. At one point she touched my hand. A romantic entanglement with her or anyone else at this facility would surely destroy my career, such as it is. I’m already on thin ice with my superiors for the usual nonsense: insubordination, unprofessional conduct, unauthorized curriculum changes. Now I’m trying to straighten out. So I need to keep my distance from this trainee. After our meeting I returned to my quarters and found a scorpion in one of my boots. How do they get in here?

10.15. My quarters. On this day in 70 B.C., the poet Virgil was born. I haven’t left my quarters all day. Continuing intermittent sand squalls make leaving the bunker a crap shoot and it’s such a hassle to leave and return through security that it’s not worth the effort in these conditions. I stayed in bed and read the dictionary for two hours. After that I prepared my notes for class tomorrow. I need more time off.

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