Don't commit to anything more complicated than an obituary.
I'm at the ass-end of Bay Roberts, surrounded by the homemade aprons, wondering how I got myself into this mess, and indeed, how I'm gonna get out of it.
See, Sarah died.
So, I looked at that and told myself, "Life is finite. Time is precious. Friends are everything. Sarah looks gross as a dead body."
Then I told her former class and teachers that I would write and direct a school play for them because Sarah was supposed to do it.
Write it!
"Don't bother being the adult, anybody. Leave that to me.
We all know how good I am at that."
But they don't know. That's the real ruse that's unfolding, here.
This was, in all likelihood, a bad idea.
I've never written a play before.
I haven't really read that many, either.
And it's not even like it's a play for adults.
A play for adults would be easy; you establish a likeable character and then give them AIDS.
Simple.
But with junior high kids, you have to have a message in there.
Me, delivering a message to the youth.
Alright, here's a message:
When your friend dies, don't commit to anything more complicated than an obituary.
However, from beyond the ether, Sarah manages to inspire me.
Learning that she claimed she would write a play last year, only to have left it too late, thus forcing her to purchase a play instead.
For example.
Remembering that she only concluded the play the year before that because I helped her edit it and make it good, for another example.
As Andie mentioned this morning, "If Sarah can walk and talk..."
But what do I do when she can't do those things any more?
Well, for the time being, it seems I get myself into sticky situations.
It's gonna be cool!
I write the thing and take some competing school's drama teacher to bed.
Who knows?!
Sky's the limit.
At the very least, I might comfort myself with the reminder that grieving suckers can back out of things really easily.
I just have to get morose and say, "I'm just not feeling up to it."
Worked with my student loans.
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