California Gold Rush

You know it's really summer when I start up my crazy schemes again.

There's an emotion people call "insanely happy," but most of them don't know what they're talking about. To be insanely happy, one must place equal emphasis on the "insane." It's not extremely happy. It is not drunkenly happy. Insane is insane. Irrational. Unreasonable.

Full of crazy schemes.

For example, I think: I have a new notebook. That entitles me to skip town with no luggage, possibly so I can duel a red-headed step-aunt and rescue the twin brother you never knew I had. Look at it this way: you're an esteemed forensic psychologist. Some crazy blond chick busts in with sci-fi looking water pistols, shouting about the spirit of Che Guevarra. What do you do?

You go down on tha mothafuckin FLOOR, that's what!

I also think: this plan is both affordable and likely to work. I must call Patrick.

Foolishly, he has turned off his cell phone. There is now no one to contradict my brilliance.

[The phone rings. It is Patrick. Damn.]

P: I think this plan is brilliant.

R: Really?

P: Well, we may have to go over the details. The plan is to kidnap Ciro?

R: No. The plan is to terrify his aunt into realizing she is miserable and shrewish and taking her miserable shrewishness out on everyone.

P: I do not think you will accomplish this with sci-fi looking water pistols.

R: Well, real guns is out of the question. And no guns is just ASKING for trouble.

P: This is a terrible plan.

[Patrick's rear tire explodes.]

Forces of the Universe: Take THAT!! We agree with Romie.

P: Hey! My tire!

R: Mwa-ha!

P: I've gotta deal with this. I'll see you when I get home.

R: Sure you will. . .