This youngster returns from his two year vacation. He's the one in the middle, with the hair part.

I'm excited and all, but I sort of wish I had some more time to enjoy stealing his clothing and sweat-nastying it up on morning runs. 


He needn't know. 

More than anything else, this means I only have one more day to abuse my position as official babysitter of his Facebook page.

I offered to be the recipient of cash or even cheap airport souvenieres on behalf of keeping things boring, but it turns out he'd rather have a smattering of spice accross his Bookface reputation. 

Would my time be better spent uploading entire albums of pictures from his junior high years, or immaturely making 12-year-old-girl commentary on his friends' walls? 
Oh, the procrastination. If only I had time to do it all. Why do I do these things to myself?

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