Ah, bureaucratic fun, how I've missed you.

Well, I figured out that the reason I couldn't sign up for Orientation was because I was given a completely random ID number in that one single department of the university. No one knows why, or how it happened. Hilarity ensues. Or something. We are all fixed up now though. And thanks to the wonderful woman at the eye clinic, Sean's appointment (same day as orientation, aaagh!) is moved up an hour, which means we might actually get there on time.
And it is a non-dilation appointment. *insert sigh of relief here* No eyedrops. No screaming. Well, no more screaming than usual. There was much rejoicing.
Chris is off in Salem pimping his company making money sitting in a booth. Woo? Exciting?
Noah flies the friendly skies. Or something.
Michael Moore's Seventeen Reasons Not To Slit Your Wrists/Move To Canada/Foo.
Am I the only one who has this urge to make soundtracks for their characters? I'm such a dork. But this is a perfect Alex/Falda song.

free flight (muscles: Fabian)

He'd escaped the tyranny of mowing lawns and dealing with his future for one summer and flown forward in time, skipping three hours forward like magic to bury himself in cosmopolitan east coast cities and art camp paid for on his godfather's gold-toned Amex card. Boston was nothing like Portland, and he was glad of the differences for once, because they let him forget himself. No logically blocked off four-quadrant grid here; twisted arches, dogleg little streets and buildings that felt real with age.

Anthony had just rolled his eyes and muttered something about escapism and weak-willedness under his breath, but he didn't understand, as usual. It was easy for Anthony. Anthony had always wanted to be whatever everyone else expected. Whether that was deliberate on his part or just fate slipping him three aces under the table Fabian didn't know, and he wasn't sure he cared, either. It was easy to not care when that was conveniently compartmentalized three hours and a thousand miles away.

Art camp was even better than hanging out at Ross's bachelor apartment and eating pizza all the time - more fun than getting a contact high off of fixative. For the first time ever he was actually free to hang around people who had the same motivations he did, that thought and breathed and drank images.

The real trip was life drawing though. It was there he was confronted with the concept of nudes. And legal nudes, not just spying on people in the shower, either. The idea seemed to have naughty, illicit promise, kind of like someone handing him a big bag of weed and telling him to go ahead and light up the bong, but it turned out to be a lot more serious than that. It was hard, trying to keep up with the quick two minute poses, trying to define muscle tone with the barest line and shading, but it was a direction he was more than willing to stretch.

Somewhere that summer he learned that some of the most important muscles aren't the ones you draw, or the ones you work out at the gym, but the ones in your head - the ones you end up with accidentally.