So here I sit, a freshly tuned violin in my lap, a wallet with much less money than what I would like stuffed inside it, my glasses (slightly smudged) perched atop a novel that I shall probably never finish. My room is in its typical mess, apart from my bed which is so neatly made that it looks as though it belongs to a room of the House of Elrond. It's a really nice-looking bed. I have spent exactly forty-three days in search of a job that would help me pay for college, and I have fallen short of completing this task. I am more than slightly discouraged, but I'm also more than slightly pleased as well. Because of this lack of income, I am forced to live a frugal life inside this room with my Elf bed and unfinished novels and various musical instruments, and learn to be more like Penelope Stamp. Everyone wants to be more like Penelope Stamp...
It's 1:06 in the evening, and I still have bed head, morning breath, and wrinkles on my face from my pillows, and I am in no inclination to fix any of it.
This summer, my trade is simple: A recluse.
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