Yesterday Ben K. was in the area, so I got to have an "adventure" (you know, other than my school experiences on the verge of disastrous slacking/ill-fated execution). I'd spent the day with Seth beforehand, where we had a restaurant-related debacle; children of the leisure class as we are, neither of us had brought much cash, intending to pay instead with my credit card. The place, a little family-operated dive in Wheaton, did not take credit cards. Miserably, I attempted to negotiate an ATM in a nearby liquor store; I was unsuccessful. In a moment of inspiration, I went back to my car and discovered four dollars in quarters, which, taken with the two dollar bills I had in my wallet, was enough to cover our lunch. It was still a ridiculous and stupid situation, and we went back to his house feeling guilty and unhappy. We hung out together for a couple hours and felt better by the end.


When I got home at 8:30, I found out Ben was around. "Are you doing anything?" he asked. Of course I wasn't. I called up Seth; he was "out" (wandering around an unspecified location in Bethesda). I encouraged Ben to drive over, so we could go into Bethesda and find him and sample the nightlife. Ben said something like, "Oh good, 'cuz that's what we're best at - finding things in cars." He showed up at 9:15, and I directed him (poorly) to the parking lot by Blockbuster's.

"I bet Seth's at Olsson's," I said. "Do you know where Olsson's is?" He didn't. Neither did I. "That's okay," I said. "It's in Bethesda somewhere, as are we."

"That's half the battle," Ben agreed.

We decided to take the approach of asking people on the street for help. Ben targeted the cute girls. Sadly, his cute girls were always with attractive-if-smirky young men. Before we could embarrass ourselves too much with the hip young set, Seth called my cell phone and arranged to meet us outside Barnes & Noble. Hanging out with just Ben and Seth is a slightly uncomfortable experience for me; they're both funny, and in near-identical ways. I need a fourth person to diffuse the humor resonance. I suggested looking for Natalie at her place of work, the Cottonwood Cafe. We did so, and I finally saw the much-touted Eddy; I didn't get a great look at the guy, but I'm inclined to not like him on principle, because he called us dorky after we left.


Natalie caught up with us at Ben & Jerry's, where we were negotiating sharing a sundae three ways. With endearing classic Natalie-ness, she hit on most things and people in attendance, and achieved a free ice cream through her feminine wiles. I was shocked and very impressed, having never achieved anything through feminine wiles - I'd never conceived of trying. Ben and Seth played paper football with an ice cream cone wrapper, which degraded inevitably into aiming shots at each other's faces. At 11:00 or so, we tired of the kooky, carbohydrate-heavy atmosphere and made our way to Bethesda Elementary. I said earnestly, "There's something delightfully sinister about playgrounds at night." It's true. Maybe it's all the implied making out.


While there, we encountered the alphabet, spray-painted in a circle on the asphalt. "Let's spell out things!" said Ben. I think the first thing he spelled was FATSOQ, jumping from letter to letter like a human Ouijia marker. I contributed the uninspired BENISDUMB in spite of his interference; he tried to tackle me to take me off-course, but Seth and Natalie subdued him. Then we climbed on a spider like series of intersecting ladders. We met in the middle and sat there, shivering a little and attempting to perform all of TMBG's "Fingertips"; unfortunately, we got bogged down in the middle. I swore I'd practice more and try it again.

Even though I'm sick (still!), there are wonderful things that should be related today - the most important, of course, being national news. The snipers have been caught; life in suburban Maryland is again relatively safe and normal! I brought home celebratory carryout for my sister and me after school yesterday. Food = victory (I'm no better than a Flaubert protagonist).


Today was one of those just in time everything days, where most things work out anyway. The History exam is the biggest unknown; I took it before school, having studied for an hour or so beforehand. I really did feel like I knew a lot, and I was excited about the topic (the Russian Revolution, 1917). However, my first problem was that Mr. Hines dawdled in giving me the prompt, so I didn't actually receive it until 6:46. The warning bell sounds at 7:20, and class starts at 7:25, which afforded me roughly 39 minutes to complete a 45-minute essay. I was therefore pressed for time even from the beginning, and became increasingly desperate as kids trickled into the classroom and made (what seemed to me) an unconscionable amount of noise.


When I had twenty minutes left, the girl whose seat I'd appropriated walked in, and, apparently not knowing what else to do, stood over my shoulder, staring impatiently at my essay. I tolerated her for about five minutes (internally, I was in panic-mode, already running out of time and beginning to muddle May and July Crises), until finally I shot her a look of distracted terror. It was a gamble, I guess; she could have reacted meanly to my show of weakness. As it was, I think my expression made her uncomfortable, and she took a step or two back.


Meanwhile, her asshole friend in the seat next to me attempted to strike up a conversation (twelve minutes left!). "So, are you taking a test or something?" he said, appraising my scrawls.

"Yes," I said a little curtly, hoping it would silence him.

"Oh..." he said. "What class?"

I gave him a look of muted despair.

"What class are you supposed to be in?" he tried again.

I ignored him, painstakingly. Of course, then the girl began to talk; she gave him a long-suffering look and began, with a sigh, "I guess I'll just chill here for awhile...." You do that! I thought, scribbling wildly. I had five minutes left and two paragraphs (!!) to go. In some corner of my mind, I heard her discussing her weekend plans loudly, and I fumbled for a specific word, and - acting on instinct now - I picked up all my things and stumbled into the hall, where I sat out of the way and hastily finished a paragraph and began another.


The bell rang at some point. I decided to take what extra time I could, before Mr. Hines would come out to claim my exam. I had only just begun my conclusion when he appeared and stood over me. "One more sentence," I mumbled - and proceeded to write one of the longest sentences I've ever written, encompassing the political instability of war-weary Russia and its grave implications for the new Bolshevik regime. I turned it in. He wrote me a pass, looking oddly both annoyed and concerned for me. I went to the bathroom and washed off my face, which was very white, even for me - except for my cheeks, which stood out sharply and were unusually flushed.


As to the quality of that essay, I have no idea. I can't even begin to predict the results of the exam. Later tests were much more relaxed and certain - one in Econ and one in Physics. Also, a celebratory luncheon (first open lunch in three weeks!) at the god-awful Chinese food place with Nick B., Seth, Alex, Jen, and assorted others. On the way back to school, Seth remarked wisely that maybe people would stop thinking Nick was gay if he would just cut back on the giving-blow job insinuations.

And, finally, I received my SAT-II scores today: 800s on Writing and Literature, and a 770 on Math II-C. The latter is a complete but welcome surprise, since I half-guessed on three problems, and bubbled in random answers for four others.

My thought process/self-excusing semi-apology: I'm sick. If I don't go to school tomorrow, I'll be screwed - out two exams, both the math and the Big Important History Essay. If I go to school late, I won't be able to park, and anyway my parents will fret about me being shot. Therefore, I will go to school on time and face Carolyn and feel guilty for missing Printing today.


Meanwhile, I'll explain why I've historically been sick on high-pressure days. When I was in seventh grade, during in a period of my life that wasn't particularly stressful (nor was I eating anything new, or anything else obvious), I experienced a strange two- or three-week period where I would wake up, feel fine, go to school for an hour or so, and promptly become violently ill, be basically incapacitated for roughly twelve hours, then feel fine again. It happened roughly three times a week. In the years since then, perhaps out of fear of a random recurrence, I've tended to be more self-indulgent about sickness.


Since then, I seem to have picked up the ability to semi-control when I feel ill. For example, I wasn't prepared for my math test this morning; thus I developed flu-like symptoms and was able to sleep in with minimal guilt (I can't tell you how many times this has happened, but my absence rate in past years has been legendary). Now, of course, I do feel guilty and embarassed, because I've come to doubt that it's real illness if it's somehow self-induced. It's also warped that my preferences would influence my immune system at all.


Back to the essay. Also: I should stop whining and decide whether to read Virginia Woolf as well.

Memorable experiences of the past few days: Sitting bundled up in my mother's overcoat, in the cold half-lit gym, and losing at card games to Sandy and Lily. The underclassmen were taking the PSAT, and sniper attacks relegated the seniors not to their homes (as was originally planned) but to an out-of-the-way corner of the school. I was cold and hungry for three hours, but energized by thoughts of my Madame Bovary presentation. Dena sat in Hank's lap, and they flirted shamelessly while I copied color imagery into my notebook. I tried to flirt but was rebuffed by Hank, who related me to a bride-to-be looking for one last fling.

"What if Sharon and Seth did get married?" said Dena. "Ooh, I'd like to be their kid."

I was touched, though bemused, having never before projected myself onto a friend's future child. Another thing: I was over at Seth's house yesterday for the ever-popular dinner/movie combo. Stuffed with Thai food, and sporting Nurse Betty and Pop Rocks (only after an earnest discussion where we decided we could just eat it, as candy), we set up in his basement - and were suddenly joined by his sister and two friends, who'd also been to Blockbuster. A long argument ensued, with much joking and some oddly anti-Semitic comments (exchanged by the Jewish people in the room, while I sat in uncertain silence). Some lousy compromises were proposed - like that each of us get to see half of our respective movies.


I piped in with a magnanimous offer to drive the girls to one of their other houses. They accepted, and somehow Seth ended up actually driving (I suppose because he, at least, knew where he was going). I sat up front with him in his parents' car. The girls chattered endearingly about cretins and Les Mis. We dropped them at a corner and drove back into the night, singing oldies with the radio. Back at Seth's house, he jumped the curb twice trying to park.

"I feel wild," he said. "Must be the Pop Rocks, stirring up feelings of rebellion."

We went inside. We noticed the girls' movie lying on a shelf, in the doorway. Seth cursed, then laughed. His parents guilted him in to returning it, though - so we called up his sister and her friends, and agreed to meet them at the same corner momentarily. Walking out to the car again, I commented on Seth's reckless driving, and he reiterated that it was in the spirit of wild abandon.

"You've got a girl alone in the car, and all you can think to do is jump the curb?" I said. He leaned in and kissed me, pointedly.

We made the trade, wished the girls a happy movie-watching experience, and headed back to Seth's house once again. He drove beautifully. We curled up in the basement and belatedly ate our Pop Rocks and enjoyed Nurse Betty, which is still weird and charming.


Today: I went to the dentist, and had some arguments and angst, and talked to Seth and felt better. I'm still troubled, but I'm not prepared to communicate it cogently. So suffice it to say that lately I've been carrying around a mix of sadness and frustration, and it's giving me a headache and other physiological reactions. I also have a cavity.

Gar, silly Blogger. I was fooling around with a post earlier today and clicked Post but not Publish, and there it was, published. But unedited and unsatisfying, of course, so let's try again.

Today, while "tutoring" in the Writing Lab, I encountered this e-mail from my mother:

"Sharon - I came across a really interesting article that I thought you might want to read.... It seems that there may be immunological reasons for couples to have sex with each other regularly for a year or longer before attempting a pregnancy because there is a lower risk of miscarriage and other problems. It seems that the woman’s body needs to get used to her partner’s foreign genetic material to minimize the risk of immunological rejection of the fetus. If you want to read the article, go to www.usnews.com, look for Health and Medicine partway down the page, and click on 'Why sex, really?' Ok, now I have to get back to work. Love, Mom"


I love my mother, and appreciate her thoughtfulness - but, gosh, how surreal. It shaped the oddness of the rest of the day; in fifth period, for example, Alexis said something along the lines of, "I don't believe we need any government at all. People should just do what they want to do in order to be happy, etc." And Josh threw a wad of paper at her head. And then on the way home I passed a man who was reaching in his pocket and pulled out his empty fist, but it looked like a gun, and I flinched and wondered why.


And then I went to Sandy's surprise party, which felt a bit like a secret club meeting, where I'm not a member. I am glad to have gone, even though it made me somewhat sad and awkward; I do love Sandy, and actively like all the other attendees (about fifteen in all, including family, at Hamburger Hamlet). I wish I was better at social interaction. I wish I hadn't antagonized Hank somehow. In moments of great stress or particular strangeness, I have a ridiculous habit of dissociating from reality and getting confused about present vs. future. I do it all the time during Mock Trials, class presentations, etc. And I was certainly doing it tonight.... I couldn't seem to focus. (sigh) I feel demoralized again. I should sleep.

They're so resigned to what their fate is
But not us (no never), no not us (no never)
We are far too young and clever

"Come On Eileen," if you didn't know. Please download (grin). My English commentary is in progress, in seventh period. I have no idea what kind of job I'm doing. It's one of the most demoralizing experiences of my life, as I stare into a mass of bored, confused, even angry faces. My teacher's face looks grotesque with intensity, as she scrawls frequent responses to what I'm saying - probably she disagrees. Probably I shouldn't think about it, or I'll lose my nerve altogether. She did tell me afterwards that I basically have a World Lit paper done, which I guess is heartening. I've enjoyed preparing my commentary, and I had intended to do something similar for World Lit anyway. I love English again, but it terrifies me.

Now, for reference, my running list of temporary obsession songs:
-"What a Good Boy," the Duke's Men of Yale version
-"Take On Me," A-Ha/Rockapella
-"Brian Wilson," Barenaked Ladies
-"Two Step," Dave Matthews Band
-"Under the Bridge," Red Hot Chili Peppers
-"Come On Eileen," Dexy's Midnight Runners/Rockapella

(sigh) There's so much good pop in the world.

First, a brief note on my day off, which was Wednesday and pre-scheduled and had nothing to do with the sniper. Seth had Testostertones practice in the morning, after which Hank graciously dropped him at my house, and we drove into Bethesda and walked aimlessly for a little while. I became aware gradually that the streets were near empty, and that we were probably compromising ourselves. I asked him if we could please go indoors somewhere, feeling at once sheepish and uncomfortable.


We cut over to Barnes & Noble, where we encountered Natalie D. ascending an escalator. We followed her up to the (enormous) periodical section, where she was scanning art magazines for material for a Madame Bovary-themed collage. We chatted her up and "helped" until she had what she needed. She left us then, encouraging us not to get shot. I shivered as Seth and I sat down by a window in the cafe. Walking home, I offered my feeble insights as to what roads we should and should not take; Seth implied, gently, that I seemed very affected by the shootings.


Now, of less import: I woke up at 3:30 AM today to write my Madame Bovary oral commentary, became disgruntled with the prompt and dozed again until 4:30, woke anxiously, made coffee, started work in earnest, and completed about three lines' worth of commentary by 6:40 (roughly two paragraphs of analysis). My passage, I discovered quickly, was difficult. I sat in my swivel chair and swiveled and agonized over it and wasn't very productive. I considered cutting Madrigals to write more during first period - but that was impractical, because parking would probably be unavailable after 7:30. I resolved to write it during math class.


The end of second period Multi-Variable Calculus saw maybe six lines of text completed. I was shocked to see my tried-and-true slacking colliding with a secret work ethic; I was unable, somehow, to do a quick job of the assignment. Also, I was developing a manic fascination with the passage - it was giving me a rush to locate and identify the connections, an internal humming and a headache. I was a mess all day, unnaturally excited and distant and strained. By the end of lunch, I was still only half done, and I had all sorts of delusions of grandeur about my oral presentation. Dena, my partner, looked kind of perplexed and concerned.


Sixth period brought the sobering realization that my commentary would not be finished in time for seventh period English. Luckily, both Chris L. and Matt B. had orals before mine, buying me time - Matt and I, independently, bet Chris a dollar that he couldn't last all period (naturally, both of us had deeply selfish motives). Chris is poetic and full of bravado; he showed me half a page of scrawled "notes" he'd prepared and an unusually short passage, and took the bet. Matt and I exchanged looks of hopeful desperation. Meanwhile, Physics had degraded from Group IV talk into informal attempts at musicality from the class's many Madrigals - we tried "Oh No John" and "Ave Verum," both of which flatted egregiously, but were saved by Pouya's intermittent elephant noise contributions.


Zero hour struck, and Chris began promisingly. Unfortunately, he ran out of passage to discuss in roughly... ten minutes. Then the BSing began, with an eerie intensity - so many sentences, obviously pulled out of nowhere, that started, "And another thing I realized...." Matt and I exchanged nervous glances; one of us cracked a smile. Suddenly, we were both fighting a very powerful impulse to laugh. I squeezed the side of my desk to release it; I tried biting my lip hard. I have no idea how Matt coped with it, standing in front of the class next to Chris. The whole situation struck me as desperately ridiculous, as both Matt and I watched the clock out of the corners of our eyes. In the end, Chris performed admirably, gleaning roughly 25 minutes from mostly nonsense. He is, of course, out two bucks.


Matt is the true hero of the day, though. I don't even know if he had anything prepared; he'd muttered something about making some notes during sixth period. He delivered a performance that was startling and amusing in its ludicrousness; for example, Flaubert mocks a semi-talented opera singer as having something of both the barber and the toreador in his nature. I recognized the reference to The Barber of Seville and was quickly reminded that the other reference is to Carmen. Matt, however, was aware of neither - and asserted, unequivocally, that these images suggest effeminateness.

"The toreador is effeminate?" asked Mrs. Barrett. Pause. "Oh - the sissy costumes!"

Most importantly, Matt took up the rest of the period, and is only half done. He shot me a thumb's up when the bell rang, which I returned gratefully. I caught him up to congratulate him, and he told me he could go another whole period easily. I will not take his word for it.

I went to Homecoming on Saturday, in last year's dress but with my hair done up. My hair is rarely up - it's slippery and resists manipulation by fingers. It actually took two people to set it, all the while muttering annoyedly in Chinese. "I'm sorry it's so difficult..." I interjected, but they ignored me. My date was complimentary, in any case, which is of course the end goal. And dinner was lovely; I ordered exactly the right thing and made a pleasant discovery: Barry has a number of Eric-like mannerisms when he's doing mental math. The photo op outside Ben & Jerry's was another success - eighteen bodies in formal wear, grouped around a giant logo. Finally, the eight-block circuit around the Executive Office Building (killing time before it was "fashionable" to enter the dance) was amusing, though cold.


Unfortunately, Seth and I were exhausted from Friday's revelry. The dance hall seemed to pulse and I couldn't quite focus; nor could I hear Seth over the music, which was absolutely maddening. The numerous odd couplings, like Alison and Kainoa, and Lauren and Pouya, added a surreal quality to the evening. Also, strangely, at one point Alex approached us and said, "You know, you two are you known as the Pop Rocks couple, but you're the least carnal among us." I was mystified; naturally, the non-affection pact was in effect for Homecoming, which was strange as couples were kissing and freaking around us. But I hardly thought that made us asexual. I pondered it for awhile afterwards, preoccupied with my uncertain sexual identity as The Good Girl in a Serious Relationship.


The dance ended at 11:00 PM, and we stumbled out to Seth's car (he'd driven, for the first time on one of our excursions). As I fumbled with directions in the dark, we passed three or four men in their thirties on Fleet Street. One raised either a fake gun or an unloaded, real gun and fired it at my head. I shuddered and ducked a little, instinctively, before I got the joke. "What fuckers," said Seth. "What assholes." I felt a twinge of embarrassment for falling for it, then a palpable discomfort that lasted into the next day.

"But... didn't human stupidity predate the use of preservatives?"

After school on Friday, I collected Seth and we began formulating plans for how to get in touch with Ben K. - then he was in front of us, at the foot of the stairs. Both boys uttered guttural groans of surprise and affection, and grappled with one another for two confused minutes' worth of "wrasslin.'" I hid my head in Hank's chest; Hank helped by shouting, "Hey, look everyone, it's Sharon's boyfriend!" Eventually, Ben and Seth pulled apart and dropped whoever had currently been in the air. Liz found us there; she skirted some Set-Con duties and we had a late lunch instead, at (of course) Pho 95.


Afterwards, time constraints forced Seth and me to forego trips to our respective houses, for clothes and sleeping bags and contact solution. We formed a (this time successful!) caravan to Ben's house, and arrived sans high jinks - except for some really aggressive arm-waving between Liz, in Ben's car, and Seth, in mine. At one point, I think Seth was just pounding on my windshield for her attention. Eric, the fifth in our party, was waiting for us at Ben's house, so we piled into one car and set out for Baltimore. (It occurred to me later that everyone in the car had gone out with either Seth or me, as I was considering the even stranger grouping to come.) We played the Beatles' greatest hits CD - none of the boys could quite sing in that range, though Liz and I were fine, and Seth tried some really vile falsetto harmonization.


At JHU, we passed an hour by ourselves while Ben rehearsed. We then snuck into the theater at the student price. The plays were fun, and Ben was inordinately talented as the son-of-Satan, hunchbacked jar-fixer in The Jar. He was also, of course, great in the other play, but it wasn't as insane and gleeful a part. Liz and I had a debate during intermission about whether the exchange between Ben's character and his father was supposed to be comical. The son discovers a secret program within the FDA to increase global food supply through the use of poisonous preservatives; at one point, the father says something like, "Didn't you think it hurt me every time I saw you eat a hamburger?" Ben settled the debate afterwards by telling us we were, in fact, to take the dialogue seriously. It was mostly student-written stuff, and full of interesting ideas but inexperienced execution.


I met ("met") Ben's roommate upstairs at about 11:00 PM. He looked so normal and harmless; I was expecting an ogre of homophobia and muted racism. He had been spending about seven hours a day on Final Fantasy II. We left him to his leisure activity and, having lost Liz (her parents picked her up after the plays), the boys and I combed the campus for something non-alcoholic and interesting to do. We ended up back in the laundry room of Ben's dorm, sipping sodas and discussing whether the dryers were uteral imagery. Eric shared an anecdote about a dorky friend of his who'd never been on a date. His suggestion had been to embrace dorkiness, because at some point it becomes endearing. "That's true, isn't it?" he asked me.

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "it depends on the girl. That works for me."

And all three guys hung their heads, simultaneously. And I was suddenly and potently aware that I was sitting with a boyfriend and two exes, and would be sleeping with them that night. In spite of that, the night itself was uneventful.

An unexpected detour on the way back to Gaithersburg brought one more chance for excitement; we missed the turn-off onto 270 and ended up parking in a pumpkin patch to reorient. While Ben consulted maps, Eric, Seth, and I figured out how to exit the car (I'd been child-locked in) and found a haunted school bus abandoned off to the left.

"That’s such a make-out spot," said Seth, with some enthusiasm.

Closer inspection revealed that it was not, in fact, a make-out spot, as the bus was filled with the straw remains of "dead children" and spray painted with grisly details about their demise. One artistic contribution was just a black face with a red splotch and an arrow indicating "Dead Child." A slide poked out the rear, and a sign there proclaimed, "SCHOOLS OUT" (…forever). We mocked the bus mercilessly, and played on the slide, and sang TMBG loudly until we were back at Ben’s house again.

The last couple of days have been weird, as I've attempted to consider various permutations of my weekend. For example, I have no Homecoming dress (Montgomery Mall on Wednesday was a bust - there was little of interest in the stores, and what there was didn't fit me. I bought myself a new necklace/matching earrings and an Italian soda in consolation), so now I must consider: a.) whether it's worth attempting White Flint tomorrow, at the expense of a date, b.) whether I have time between now and Saturday to try on Ruchita's excess dresses (would they even fit? Practically nothing does), and c.) at what point, if at all, I'm going to be ferried by Ben to JHU tomorrow. A lot of confusing details, with everything hinging on everything else - a lot to keep in my mind, along with partial derivatives.


What I do know is that I'm attempting to have a post-Homecoming sleepover, very small and self-contained and loosely co-ed. I've fought all kinds of battles to bring this event to fruition. Desperately concerned with "liability" and the dangers of hook-ups, my mother grilled me for twenty minutes on how I'd police things downstairs.

"What if you saw a couple making out?" she demanded.

I considered this. At the time, there would be one couple in attendance - I am in it, and am publicly and a bit derisively known for my no-kissing-in-front-of-friends rule. I explained about the self-control. "As for hook-ups," I added, "the people who are coming don't even like each other."

She thought I was evading the question.

"Okay," I began again, "if it was in the middle of the room, I don't think I'd stop it. That's harmless."

She commented, sagely, that it is not so hard to go "from making out to making love." I wanted to quip that such a thing has never spontaneously happened to me (whoops, we were kissing, and suddenly there was extended intercourse…), but I held my tongue. I assured her with a straight face that none of my friends would be losing his or her virginity in my family room on Saturday night.

She thought I was being a smart-mouth. Okay, I was.

The end result of all this fun family dissention was that the sleepover will be gender-segregated at 2:00 AM. Not cool, I know. I do respect my mother's reservations; she's more concerned with what other parents will think than with our own tendencies towards the unreasonable or sexual. I was, however, highly amused that she objected to the sharing of sleeping bags on the basis of not knowing "what the people's hands are doing in there." I had, in fact, intended to share a sleeping bag if I could get away with it, and I was quite certain that I knew what my hands would be doing, which was nothing. I guess I feel my mom's concerns are somewhat quaint in this crowd (a throwback to a more free-spirited age, perhaps?), where my Pop Rocks story is the extent of sexual scandal.

It's now 5:00 AM. I've been up since 3:00 for reasons that are very much within my control; I guess I've come to somewhat like the farmer-schedule approach to completing my homework. Well, I wrote an EE (congrats, I know), which leaves me nothing left to do except fret about college, which I really ought to do this week, and procure a Homecoming dress and prepare a timetable for visiting ye olde Baltimore. I'm in the oddest of moods, a sort of semi-insistent melancholy. I think it's sympathy pains, but I don't know for who exactly - probably generalized. Survivors' guilt, I guess: my troubles are gone, temporarily, so I think everybody deserves such a respite.


Gallipoli this afternoon if I want to go - shown for the benefit of a TOK group in which I'm not a member (again, fate has placed me with the lovely Ben E., Sandy, and Gavin). I may go. I need human companionship of an extra-Seth nature. Then again, I also need a Homecoming dress.