It's My Pity Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

Those of you who subscribe to this blog have probably figured out that I bumped the keyboard shortcut for "Publish" (what are the odds?) while I was typing the title of this post. You will have been notified that I posted something about self-pity, which turned out to be blank. So even if I decided to write this for pure catharsis value and then not publish it, some of you would know I was emotionally wonky. This being the case, I figure I owe you an explanation of what's been making me sad/angry/frustrated lately (aside from the fact that I'm a careless typist):

1. The class I'm teaching went amazingly well for the first week, and then went promptly into the shitter. Case in point: when teaching a chapter about locating subjects and verbs, it's best, as the instructor, not to have to admit in front of your students that you aren't really sure what the main verb in that sentence is. Being groggy from a long weekend cannot fully excuse flamboyant stupidity.
2. Aside from that, I thought I was doing pretty well, and that the students were, too, until I graded the first test. Not good. Not good at all. While this probably has more to do with test anxiety than my teaching skills, I'm afraid a certain amount of self-blame is just part of responsible teaching.
3. Due to some ill-timed government nonsense, I'm pretty sure we're driving around in an unregistered car.
4. I'm thrilled that the loud sex neighbors are now shrieking with orgasmic delight over someone else's head at 4 A.M., but we're still stuck with the neighbor directly below us, who has a recording studio in his bedroom (I swear I couldn't make this up), and likes to work in it after midnight. When he wakes me up, one of us goes down to complain and he falls all over himself apologizing, but feeling bad only goes so far when he's too clueless/inconsiderate/forgetful to make it more than a few nights without doing it again.
5. Because I want to limit my complaints to when it really matters (at night when I need to be sleeping), I feel unable to go down and pound on his door right now, while the volume on his stereo is up so high our whole apartment is vibrating. I don't recognize what he's listening to now, but the other day I was startled awake from a nap by "Don't Worry, Be Happy." Just like if Bobby McFerrin had been in my living room.
6. Also, he thinks my name is Erica, and calls me that every time he sees me. It's too late to correct him.
7. A very good friend moved to Washington this week.
8. Most of the friends I'm left with are casual friends from work, or Eric's friends first. A lot of them are single men.
9. Last night, while we were trying to make plans with some of these friends, one of them suggested going to a strip club. I think a strip club could be fun, but only if there were other women in the group, and there weren't. The guys briefly surmised that they didn't want to "choose between boobs and Amber," then unanimously chose boobs. I was left home with the cats and a rerun of Saturday Night Live.
10. Sad calling, it turns out, is not entirely unlike drunk dialing. Sorry, Emily.

Whew. I think there's room in my head now for the work I need to do. Thanks, Internet.