please, s'il vous plaît, por favor, doozo...someone from a college which Gabe could possibly function at--especially Mitchell--tell us something. Tell us you have all his stuff. (because I don't even know if you do, and have no other way of finding out.) Tell us you want him. Tell us anything. My Myers-Briggs J is doing a little berzerker dance all around the kitchen floor.
See, I don't want a next year that is the same as this year, and that means moving things (and by things, in this case, I mean Gabe) along. Plus, once I have a clue what next year could possibly entail for him, I can latch onto that like a terrier onto a pants-leg, and plan and plan and plan. Planning, you see, is the opiate of the perpetually anxious. You can overplan, you can triple plan, you can make plans A,B,and C thru Z, and it feels like doing something.
Indeedy, I am a ship which has utterly lost its ballast, and that is why we stay busy--we are busy getting lunch/running errands/studying Japanese--because if you just weigh anchor and float, then...whoaa (not to mention avast...) you notice you are listing heavily to port or starboard, or perhaps just taking on a bit o' water. Whereas if we skitter about with the bilge-rats, we're less inclined to notice that the crows are about to fall out of the crow's nest.
Anyway, those college peoples would be doing me a big fat favor in terms of serotonin bursts to drop me a tantalizing piece of acknowledgment, and I'd be as grateful as a rat can be!
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