questions his motives.

dismayed by the prospect of a week of trudging(?) to and from work in this fucking heat.

heat energy coursing through him.

sighs, shakes head. "The best laid plans..."

considers driving around again.

eats pesto tortellini.

looked at all his past plurks, sort of.

constantly "the only gay guy I know/hang out with/am cool with/friends with/etc."

questions whether Mr. Anderson really meant what he said about going away, or if the camping trip is all it really was.

absolutely wishes he had more "medication" right now. Taking what he has left would presently be a waste.