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-Url quote at this very moment: "http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=1927537434726608281"-

So, I had a dream last night that I was doing voice exercises when who should walk into the front door but Senator Obama (!) saying that he heard I was still undecided (which I am, in real life). He then proceeded to sit in my rocking chair and discuss policy with me.

O.o You have my permission to be confused as well.

Allow me to paint a portrait in words, as I am woefully poor at painting it in reality. Picture, if you will, a teenaged boy, sitting in the sort of chair that is attached to a desk (and hence catches people, such as me, who have now long forgotten its wiles, unawares by trapping them into whichever aisle they happen to go into first -- but I digress). His face is a mask of serious contemplation. He has just taken Part I of a standardized test, the likes of which has never been seen before this hyper-overachiever generation. On the desk before him are various writing implements, on the floor beneath him is a pink booklet containing Part II, still solemnly shrink wrapped against the early peek. Most of the rest of the class has adjourned to the outdoors, for their requisite parcel of "fresh air", though in their current state of heightened nervousness, they shiver even within the carefully temperature-regulated room. So this boy is sitting thoughtfully in the middle of a vast woody well of vacant desks. On his head is a tightly-crinkled mass of reddish curls, inclined more sidewards than down, by their density.

And in his hands? Ah, reader, his hands.

They are slowly, meditatively peeling strips off of string cheese and stuffing them into his mouth.

Reality check. I much prefer Babybel, myself.