“Pffft,” I said.

Nick had thrown a rope over a wall earlier that day and repelled into the courtyard. He was inside now, waiting for us.

“Are you nervous about getting arrested?” someone asked.

“Are you kidding me? I would love to get arrested today,” I cried. “That shows cops are actually around. Which implies a certain degree of security and safety . . . sanity, order . . . that let’s just say, I’d love to feel around here. Anyway, I decided long ago that I don’t care about my legal record. I will never have that kind of job.”

Seriously though. I write about my life (mistakes) on the internet. I take my clothes off in bars and hotel conference rooms. Getting arrested for breaking and entering an abandoned mental hospital would be just another awesome thing you wish you were telling your grandchildren.

“. . . Unless there’s a fee involved. Nights in jail I can do. But really, I can’t afford even a twenty-five dollar ticket.”

We slipped in the side door, confident, chatty but muted, smoking cigarettes, and waited for the next group of four. The walls fluttered with peeling paint. Afternoon sunlight broke in through crumbling windows and everything was glowing, shifting, crunching under our feet. This was the kitchen. Here is the old sink. This was the sponge they used. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Uh, guys . . .”

Scott nodded his head toward the door, which was now wide open. A uniformed man had propped it with his foot. His left hand was shading his face from the sun, his right hand was on his hip. He was just standing there, like a man who has stood there many times before, waiting to be noticed.

We filed out, one at a time. Hop over broken glass, jump down to pavement, scamper scamper. Then he closed the door behind us, and wordlessly returned to his squad car.

Why That Is Delightful

Justjustjust Dance

Necessary Things

Hugs Are Terrible

Full album from a weekend of break-ins, poetry, 40s and lectures incorporating hamster wheels (wait . . . what is this, college?) here.

In which I am surprised.

Today was my official last day. My laptop was cleared, my last podcast put up with no fanfare. I walked the mile home, set my purse down, and then opened my computer to see this picture. And I was suddenly overcome with horror.

“My . . . God,” I realized. “This is the kind of picture that is taken before it all went wrong.”

Phil-the-intern, Amber, Dennis, Justin, Kara, me-as-ghost, Nickolaus

“Uh, that greasy pizza box is sitting on top of a signed book by Adlai Stevenson,” I noted. “Cool?” I was eyeballing the e.e. cummings paintings leaning nearby against the stacks, John Adams’ framed copy of the constitution.

“Eh,” the technically-an-employee shrugged. “Yeah.”

Every now and then I would sneak upstairs to the art gallery, which was brightly lit and completely empty at this late hour, pristine and silent — exactly the way I’ve always wanted art galleries to be when I visit them. I padded along quietly in my rubber-soled shoes and imagined that this was my house.

Update: see more photos here and here.