The Black Dog Nipping at My Heels

The black dog can slither like a snake. The black dog can make himself invisible. The black dog can teleport through locked doors and closed eyelids. He snarls from behind me as the passage grows narrower and narrower, the lights dimmer and dimmer, then appears suddenly in front of me when the walls are so tight I can’t turn around.

With his constant snapping, I can barely read, much less write. He snatches my half-formed poems and shakes them, snapping their necks. Even his barking is derisive.

And the black dog can talk. We have conversations like this:

Maybe I should write about some of the things I’m doing with teaching and WordPress for #TWP15. I’ve been doing it for a long time–

Why? Nothing you’re doing is interesting. It’s all been done before. And by smarter and better.

OK, let me look at my little list of ideas: Quantity vs. abundance as a function of our abilities and posture? Rabbit-holes as the real world? Memorable learning and ego?

Dumb. Dumber. Dumbest. No one wants to hear your blather. Look around, man…your betters have it covered.

I could work on some ideas for Nousion. Comment on some of their work…

You know those students see right through you? You aren’t asking for their advice and ideas to be inclusive but because you have nothing interesting to bring to the table. You type a lot on their posts and say nothing. Just stop.

[Fires up TweetDeck] I need a connection. Or at least a distraction.

Hey, look how those “friends” you messaged haven’t replied? You know why that is, right?

[silence]

That’s it. You’re not just unoriginal, you’re a fraud. Quit trying to sit in with those real thinkers and real writers and real educators.

[more silence]

Sit. Roll over. Get up. Get out. Goodbye.

2 comments on “The Black Dog Nipping at My Heels

  1. The black dog carries his own load of doubt and self loathing, and addresses it by aiming to make someone else feel worse. He’s pretty weak. Kick him in the nuts.

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