Damn me and my memory, I forgot one rather interesting piece of information. Last night was John Smith's first night back at school.
A few members of "the group" drove out to pick him up, while everyone else and their friend packed into his room. There really wasn't any space left. Cramming 25 people into a room that's 12x12' on a good day does not equate a lot of leftover space, when you factor in the beds, closets, tables, and all other accoutrements of one of the rooms here.
So we're huddled in there, big "welcome home" poster on the wall, a platter of his favorite candy put on display (his enjoyment of this particular treat has earned him something of a reputation), and with candles providing the only lighting.
We receive a heads up from the group members who went out to pick him up, and everyone goes quiet. John Smith opens up the door to his old room, still with all his decorations on it, and is greeted by a cheer from the mass of people inside. We then use his sound system to play his theme song for the evening ("Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats).
The poor sod actually started crying.
Well, good to have him back, and it's obviously good for him to be back. He's been in exceptionally high spirits all day. He even got up early, which is astounding. Today was actually the first time he had ever eaten from the breakfast board here at school, and he seemed quite proud of himself.
I was feeling quite groggy with myself, but that's a different matter.
Friday today, so I've got the morning off (except for assemblance, naturally). For film-study in the afternoon we watched Pink Floyd: The Wall, which is actually the first time I've seen the whole thing. The film teacher stated that he would be very impressed if anyone managed to figure out what the hell any of it meant. Having listened to the album several times (while wholly sober, I might add), I already had certain theories about what was going on.
Uggh, speaking of morning collective, I helped out the guy who had it today... The original idea was to play some of the sound from some Christmas-time TV specials, and have two teams try to guess what it was.
Unfortunately, his computer developed a sudden inability to produce sound. This was troublesome.
Eventually we just maximized the screen size and showed them the video. Whole thing fell flat on its face. That was horrid. Especially after the masterpiece of an assemblance that was the day before (outtakes and shortest song in the world).
Also, I put on a very Norwegian sweater for today, which I think is the first time I've ever really used it. I managed to get ketchup on it. Which is especially bothersome, since I just washed my coloured clothes this morning, and this sweater doesn't count as white (except for the area where the ketchup hit, naturally).
Oh yeah, and I got a card from my gnomeparent. It includes not one, not two, but
three sketches depicting me as a squat, big-headed gremlin of a thing with a psychotic and slightly blank smile stretched across its massively wide head. The resemblance is decidedly canny.
It also has a couple clues that lead me to believe I've got a gnomefather, rather than a gnomemother. Pity.
These clues include two things: 1) A short rhyme about how the gnomeparent really thinks we click, but doesn't want to see my dick (this is an obvious sign, as I am most certainly the secret burning passion of every girl here at school). 2) A tiny little drawing off to the left that depicts a pelican eating a pigeon. This undoubtedly relates back to when we were planning our side of the boy/girl party,
where I showed a very tasteful video to the assembled lads.
I can't recall bringing that thing up anywhere else, so unless there was a spy hidden in that room, that means that it's a dude who picked me. I might even know who it is, too. I'll have to examine the drawings again.
Meh, all I can think of to say right now. Can't be arsed to do another gnomish thing for my charge until tomorrow. I think a routine of every other day should work out alright, saves me from having to think up a new horrible rhyme every damned day.