It's Sunday morning, and once more a power outage is crippling my beloved NoVA. No church, no work . . . and it's the middle of the biggest June heat wave ever to hit the D.C. Metropolitan area--though Reston doesn't really count as metropolitan, seeing as how the building of the actual Metro has been pushed back to somewhere in 2027.
My parents have decided this is an excellent day to do some chores. I just spend an hour grommeting my little sister's trampoline back together. Who knew seven teenagers could cause so much damage? And whose bright idea was it to stick the trampoline in the ivy patch? I have mosquito bites on my mosquito bites.
Is grommeting even a real word?
So now I'm hiding up in my nice, air-conditioned room where my parents can't find me. I know they want to make me do work. There's a huge stack of college paperwork sitting downstairs with my name, address, and SSN on it. There's room cleaning to be done.
Okay, Dad just made me open the package. Turns out, I have a summer reading assignment. Some book translated from the French about an Arab boy and a Jewish prostitute. The back blurb brags the book's cast as full of 'transvestites, whores, and other groups liberals throw in your face and assume consist of a great portion of society'. It's not that I have anything against transvestites, whores, or Arab orphans. It's just that I fail to see how any philosophical lesson they impart is more valid than one from an old white guy.
Ah, Sunday afternoons.
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