You Don’t Want to Know What I Did That Summer

I can’t tell you about the other exercises they made us do at opera camp. You don’t want to know. I realize you might be curious, because you’re reading this, but trust me on this one. I can’t say what we had to do, but I’ll say I was pretty good at it. I’m an adjuster. I adjust when there’s conflict. Divorced parents. But so are yours, so I don’t need to explain.

Regarding the other exercises, I don’t know how to explain the situation. Honestly, it was just weird. It felt pretty harmless at first, but it got weird when I realized the exercise had absolutely nothing to do with singing or the operatic arts. I have this photo, which should do most of the talking. These were the other counselors. Castro (the castrato I mentioned before—and yes, that was his real name—I guess) didn’t participate in this exercise. He stood on the sidelines, watching. He took this photo.

Castro sent me the photo in an email the other day. The subject read: “Shared Memories.” Inappropriate. I don’t know how he got my email or how he found my blog, but he did. He wasn’t pleased, but he tried to hide it. He said things like, “I thought we were tight,” “never even happened that way,” “you got me all wrong,” “people have to learn how to breathe right,” and “Is it me, or is everyone else crazy?” The email was crazy though, seriously. Castro is conflicted. I have been advised not to participate in any dialogue, so he’s on his own I guess.

Opera camp was conflicted. I adjusted and it’s fine now.

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