Because I've been one-lining it, here I go with everything in my slackerful and charming life. (And yes, you wouldn't be amiss in assuming that there's a lot of Law and Order in this life.)
Exhibit A: One quarter-finished novel. This is the future manuscript of my first and likely very dumb novel Boy Crazy Gets Her Man, which both gives you a feel of the futuristic hello-kitty styled murder mystery and explains my gmail tagline, which isn't about my finally pursuing men flirt-astically and settling down. Shucks. But if I can actually have a 200-odd page manuscript with a beginning, middle and an end (singing the Sesame Street song in my head), then I will be, as they say, a happy camper.
Exhibit B: A pile of tent on my laundry room floor. A pile because I put it out in the sun to de-mildew it, but then got too lazy to fold it up and put it one of the bags that is still in the back of my car (maybe I'll clean my car out tomorrow) from my camping sleepover with my good friend, Mrs. Zv, who will be shortly moving to Italy for eight months while her husband attends Johns Hopkins, which, yes, one can do in Bologna. Our briquettes kept going out so, yes, we did take my dad up on his offer to drive up and bring us pizza. So much for growing up and moving on. Still, waking up to trucks on one side of Nunn's park and a river on the other is a lovely thing to do with an old Freshman roommate.
Exhibit C: One teal tee-shirt with a slightly peeling iron-on of a bear playing a balalaika with a Soviet man half-consumed by his enormous red beard. This is my favorite souvenir from Russian camp, although my previously alluded to bottle of penicillin is a close second. My First Strep. I should write a children's book. Still, what a summer for strange adventures.
Exhibit D: Paul M (The husband of Mrs. B.--she kept her name.)'s Rock Band set. Which is strangely addictive. Which made me hoarse. And not aware for some time that it was past two o'clock in the morning. And very impressed with Nick M's vocals. And very awkwarded when Dr. M., my friend and yes, twice professor, came in while I was shouting (not singing) some Faith No More. Ah...
While this post leaves man questions unanswered (If, in an alternative universe, Jack McCoy was a defense attorney instead of assistant district attorney and faced off in the courtroom against Harvey Dent, who would win? Would McCoy have the chutzpah to punch a guy who pulled a gun on him? What is the preferred spelling of "chutzpah?") I hope that it better reflects the vast amount of time on my hands that is this summer.
Yes, invitations to play are being accepted. No questions asked.