I'm sitting in my math professor's front room. This chair's pretty damn comfortable. I bet she grades my 15 hours of proofs sitting here.

There are books and cds and records all around me--on the floor, in piles, on shelves. The aroma of cabbage and cornbeef lingers after a hearty St. Patrick's Day celebration last eve. mmm, now that's some good irish cookin'.

The sun is is shining in through her window facing south. I can see the dust on her bookshelf, on her odd lamp, on her dead plant. Yes, this is a math professor's humble abode. The lack of decoration and conservative amount of furniture reminds me of me. I'm all about drapes from Goodwill. I eat that shit up.

I'm here kidsitting three 12 year olds--2 boys and a girl. One of the boys, David, started crying earlier over a bowl of fruitloops because his rat will probably be dead by time he gets home today. Schema is her name. She's lived a good, long life, he said. He's going to miss her. They had a real bond.

His tears reminded me how fragile we human beings are--and how most of us spend our lives trying to convince ourselves and others that we are not.