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 –

….and friends!