My girlfriend and I are sitting on our recliner couch in that curious together-but-apart configuration that has become our weekday mainstay. She is furiously trying to prepare a lesson for the class she’s supposed to teach the next morning, while I am browsing the internet and updating my GameFly queue.
Music wafts through the room. My Zune Software is on randomize, and every 4 minutes delivers a buffet of eclectic harmonies. The high schoolers milling about my tutoring room could use some auditory stimulation to lift them from the doldrums of classwork. Those that are unfortunate enough to lack iPods are at the mercy of my playlist.
I hesitate – now at the edge of uncertainty and self-preservation. For a second I'm confident that there is no way in heaven or hell that I will clear the gulf between the two ledges. I panic, break out in a leap before the runway at my feet expires. No going back now.
optima dies... prima fugit. -- Virgil
[font=arial][color=blue]'Dear Mrs. N.' [/color][/font]
The script is my own. The shaky composition betrays the writing implement, one of those disposable BIC ballpoint pens that my mom was so fond of stocking my backpack with. I haven't used one of those in years.
"In less enlightened times, the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they wouldn't have to ride around with jerks."
-- Scott Adams