Oh, spring. You make me crazy with your fickleness, your false promises of beauty and youth that in a few days fade into shriveled blossoms ground underfoot by passersby, your tendency to cause people to whip off their shirts and socks and reveal winter white skin totally unsuitable for tanning -- didn't y'alls' mamas tell you about skin cancer?

Spring has hit Crimson City hard. Just last week I was wearing my orange wool coat about and today I was lying in the grass with nothing but a sleeveless tee and jeans on. (And a big ole hat, of course -- the sun is the enemy of my skin!)

I normally despise spring, but five months of dreary Crimson City weather and life wore down my usual resistance to the charms of spring, such that -- to my utter disgust -- I feel my spirits and countenance wearing a smile.

Of course, spring is the season that makes people a little crazy: all that time cooped up from the chill of winter, stuffing one's face with eggplant grinders while watching TV or attempting to read torts, and suddenly -- freedom! The increase of light decreases appetite, increases energy, and stimulates sex drive.

Speaking of which, I had a morning taken right out of a French comedy. Last night, after being very upset with Friend after he kissed me, to the point where I really thought we were going to not speak anymore this semester, I did a complete 180, succumbed to hormones and spring, and ended up hooking up with Friend. Again. (Hoots and jeers from the gallery, and ironic bows from me. Next act: self-loathing.)

Fast forward to today, noon. There's a knock on my door. Friend and I realize that it's Joiner, who organized a lunch trip to a restaurant today. We freeze and stay quiet, because you know, it's such a BIG SECRET that we're hooking up from time to time. I hear people talking about how the reservation is for 1 pm, so we have to leave bit early, and where are Friend and myself, anyway?

This is tricky; I sleep lightly and everyone knows it, so if I were in my room, I'd certainly have been woken up by the repeated knocks on the door. Friend is a far heavier sleeper, so he can say that he just didn't hear any knocking on his door. But I'm just going to have to say that I wasn't in.

I remember at about 12:10 that I was supposed to go running with Gen at 10 am today. Shit! I check my email and find, fortunately, that Gen canceled. Whew.

At about 12:30, Friend peers out cautiously and slips out. Success.

I formulate the plan that I was, uh, running with a friend, and thought we were leaving at 1 pm, and ... yeah. That'll do.

Except that I can't freakin' leave my room to pretend that I came in, because people are standing in the freakin' hall. Shit!

12:32. Still standing there, dammit.

12:35. I look at the window and get an idea.

12:36. I discard the idea.

12:37. I renew the idea.

12:38. I discard the idea. What is this, a frickin' French comedy?

12:39. They're still in the hall! I'm going to have to do it.

12:40. I do it. I put on my new exercise clothes from J1 and bigbro (apologies for using them the first time for such a devious deed!), push the screen aside, push the window out as far as it will go, and jump out of my first floor room onto the ground. I jog around the side of the building to the door and let myself in.

12:42. I walk into the hall, greeted by, "There she is!" I apologize profusely ("I thought we were leaving at 1 pm!), and am told to shower in 2 minutes.

1:10. We hit the restaurant, get seated, and I shake my head at myself. I feel badly about lying. But what do you do when your life is freakin' sitcom?