I was absent-minded, athletic, and outgoing. I didn't think before I said something, and often I was loud and flippant.

So unlike my friend.

Oh, sure, I had people was friendly to, but Barclay was my one true friend, myself being a highly suspicous person. We could control each other perfectly, and often when we studied, I quieted down and matched his somber additude. The one thing he failed at time and time again was trying to make me stop being so noisy with my music.

Failed utterly.

Myself, him, and a sophmore named Alex had formed a band, one that Barclay joined only because we did 20th and 21st century music, something of a hobby for him, and because I'd agreed to play a few games of golf with him.

WORST. DEAL. EVER.

I'm on the Daystrom Racquetball Team, and Daystrom Hockey Team, both things I find highly more rewarding than ruining my eyesight with sandpits and sunglare, and he never will let me live down hitting him in the face with my racquet the first and last time I convinced him to practice with me.

The bruises were intresting.

We'd grown up together in a far corner of Cleaveland, Ohio, and as we neared the final months of our eight year expedition he was approached with the notion of teaching.

[Here we go. Finally getting the story on it's feet! Stay tuned.]