What am I doing here? It's... a problem. Also, I seem to have a disorder wherein I very thoughtlessly respond truthfully to questions that catch me off guard, and then it's regret, regret, regret. Except... while I was on the phone with George I could hear Falton in the background laughing at our scarlet fever jokes, and George said, "Please come..." and I said, "Maybe I will," and all three of us knew that maybe meant no.

It was Saturday. It was three or four or five o'clock. Helen Mirren was there. She's so pretty sometimes. I don't know how or why, but something broke. I don't like being angry, and I'm tired of company. I only want to sleep. Even when I've just woken up, all I can think about is when I can be asleep again. If I had wings, I'd tuck my head under one.

Still, the Egg has a birthday, and then there'll be fireworks. Sam wants to hunt out iron-on letters. Michael has a story for me, and there are always plans. I'm afraid, for some reason, that July will go too fast, however tightly I hold onto it, however hard I drag my feet.