Behold, my 19th century mental ward camp boudoir!
This week, I went to camp. It was pretty much exactly like middle school – except instead of being too shy to talk to some tragically wonderful weezer-loving skater boy, it was John Patrick Shanley and Bill Pullman I was scared of; instead of writing poetry about, you know ‘the moon’ and ‘the afterlife’ I was instead writing a play. Oh, and also, there was beer, as theater camp for grown adults should.
Also, there were writing rooms:
Gardens and paths –
A beautiful library like with books –
picnics, of the social variety –
ast. camp games –