Forgive me, Iām feeling uninspired. English, history and you, all 12 of my readers, have stolen the lazy ease from my summer. I should be living in a Country Time Lemonade commercial right now. I should at least be watching one, reclined underneath the swamp cooler waiting to see if that womanizer and that heroin-addicted former prostitute come to any sort of resolution by the end of the second daily installment of Divorce Court.

If I were that astronaut on ćI Dream of Jeannie,ä Iād blink myself right out of all 104 of todayās degrees. Maybe onto some sunset beach where Iād sit, pouring back a tall glass of water and powdered lemons.

ćJeannie,ä Iād say, dressed like an astronautās wife, ćWhy donāt you blink your belly button into syndication?ä Then Iād take off my kid gloves and my pillbox hat and fall asleep right there under the cabana.

Unlimited naps are only sweet, distant dreams or delusions, or whatever. They get me through long days of, like every student everywhere, waiting for class to end. I watch the clock urging it on with all of my psychic power, simultaneously fearing the end of class and the hot walk home. Instead of living some heat-induced mirage, Iām here, walking the same route to class every day and never falling asleep past 11.

Forgive me, Jack Kerouac, itās only four more weeks. Forgive me, Jack Kerouac, I believe that you are not dead. You and your hell-fury sense of worldly adventure are merely unemployed.

In only a little time, I can sell back my weighty, pricey literature book, and William Carlos Williams will stop chasing me in my dreams with that red wheelbarrow full of chickens.

You and I, Jack, when I find you again, will point our thumbs down some dusty desert highway. Maybe Willie Nelson will pick us up while on the lam for tax evasion or possession of a controlled substance. Heāll take out that crappy old guitar and play ćOn the Road Again,ä and we can sing along until we get bored. In the mean time, I promise to try to get through one of your books, or at least one of your poems.

Oh, Olivia Newton-John, the great love of my twentieth summer is off sailing some far away lake. Iām sorry, Iām so sorry, I canāt remember the last time I jazzercised. You and me, though, in just four weeks weāll rent a boat, put on some leg warmers and have us a blast.

Until then, hey, I know why the caged bird sings. I apologize, landlord, Iām painting my walls green. I know trouble like the sound of my own name. Iām painting over all the safe white practicality of your rentable house.

Now Iāve got some gossamer bars.

If you, any of my 12 readers, can play the mandolin, come to my window tonight. But, be sure to come before 11. Sing me the bittersweet ballad of todayās Divorce Court. If Iāve finished all of my homework, we can climb the tree outside my window and watch all the mountains burn down around us. Iāll try to find you the moon in the smoky sky.

We can take a long walk down these empty streets, and you can play your mandolin, singing all the way, ćSay, hey, have you heard, the whiskeyās the rage, Iāll send you a jug in the morning. It is absurd to live in a cage, you know thereās got to be something better.ä