  So I found the Brahms, after two days delay. He was right, it was in the second drawer (I assumed I still had it in the pile right next to the cabinet, but apparently someone did some cleaning).
It's still slightly wrinkled from that puddle exposure that one day. I have markings in it for pedal, fingering, little notes to myself. He wants it back. It almost symbolizes everything we were, though. It has "TRIO" in big letters on both the official cover and the piano part cover. Turning it in tomorrow will mean turning in the trio. I can't believe we played so much music. It was just one movement, but it's pages and pages. I have to admit, though: we weren't excellent. I remember hearing the Colburn trio play another Brahms and it was simply magnificent with the rich violin and cello vibrato. It also means that after this, we don't have anything to talk about anymore. I tried starting another column today, but I don't think it will float.
Now that I said that, the chance of it actually going to print has diminished even more. I wish I knew what to write, though. That first one was magical, it filled in just the right space--it was original and it was something I could talk about. The new one is on wishes, inspired by a short conversation I had last night. An even older (and sloppier) one is on yearbooks. It's nothing to work with, though, and I can't let Bret down. I feel like such an idiotic do-gooder in journalism, too.
I stayed in for lunch until 12:30 to see what I could do about writing. Mrs. Novak came over to talk to Mrs. Battaglia about English curriculum stuff, and I almost felt embarrassed that I had no life and was instead staying in to do work. For some reason, I have always felt guilty asking for things not owed to me. I don't like to seem overly interested. Bragging is unhealthy. I wonder if this is any different than An's situation. She works hard, yes, but it seems like it consumes her. Needless to say, Brandon and Pegleg poke merciless fun. It might sound paradoxical to you, but I feel there's something gritty and primitive about people who obsess over school, as if the people who magically balance social and academic lives have simply better adapted to the environment. It's in the way these hard-core academics look and dress, their conversations, their incessant drive for perfection.
People (and I say this without particular scorn) like Anna Bekker and Irene almost seem like they just haven't grown up yet. So maturing, in a backwards kind of way, is discarding some of that perfectionist behavior. Growing up, and being imperfect. Should I just stop trying sometimes? Then again, I can't talk. 
