Straight No Chaser

Jimmy

(there's a sprinkle in my ear.)

the transcendentalism quiz is only supposed to take twenty minutes. we're on the honor system; we're not supposed to use the book, but rather to do what thoreau would do--call upon the omnipresent and omnipotent spirit that transcends all our earthly selves to answer these five highly subjective questions. but the book is just easier.

in a shocking display of dependability, marcus did call just now, exactly when he said he would. he's in metro pointe at a study group, which makes absolutely no sense at all; you'd think someone who hadn't slept in days would skip the superfluous steps of driving to and interacting with the study group--would just study and go to bed. he is being, and i say this with love, an idiot. on the phone, he was wheezing like crazy. the weather is changing again; apparently atlanta has skipped the rest of november and the winter season entirely, prodding us headlong into march and presenting a real problem for those of us with sensitive sinuses. i asked if he was feeling okay, a routine and obvious question, but one he hates, and he was like, well, if i'm sick, then you must be too, because your voice sounds really husky. "oh, that," i said. "that's just because i'm (furious at you for abusing your body that i need to help me make babies, tired of pretending it makes sense for you to take on more responsibilites when your existing ones are ruining your life, dealing with--let's not forget--my own academic and extracurricular trials but still trying to help you bear yours with some degree of balance and grace) really sleepy."

i am, though. i am really sleepy, and transcendentalism, like everything else we've discussed in my nineteenth century literature class from hell, is presenting itself as entirely useless, in the scheme of things. but my voice sounds like always. a solid soprano, mellifluous and in control. meow.

(and it hurts.)

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **