We’re sure. Just like we’re sure your wheelbarrow tippeditself over.
They’re in league. We’re being sabotaged by our equipment.
Sabotaged by jealousy. The piano’s mad you’re thinking about me instead of scales.
That's probably true. It does like my hands a little too much, if you catch my drift.
The wheelbarrow’s not jealous, it's just spiteful.
It wants to carry away my dignity.
Plot twist: they don’t realize we’re hotter when we’re suffering.
Misery loves company, but apparently it also loves dramatic lighting and dirt streaks.
So what you’re saying is… we’re basically tragic heroes in a low-budget film?
I’m the sweaty landscaper with a heart of gold, you’re the tortured artist with too much caffeine and too little sleep.
Nailed it.
I’d watch the fuck outta that movie. Five stars.
The soundtrack would be killer.
Let me guess… you'd be singing it?
Of course.
Okay, superstar.
But seriously, you’re pulling off the dirt-streaked look way too well. It’s unfair.
Send another one when the sun’s lower.
I need to see how the golden hour treats the golden boy.
Only if you send proof you’re still alive after whatever happens during this unholy practice session battle royale.
I want to see the moment the piano finally wins.
Bold of you to assume the piano will win. I’ve got spite and three more energy drinks.
I’m unstoppable.
Famous last words.
Don’t die before I get to see you suffer in person.
Wouldn’tdream of it.
Lunch break is almost over. If you hear about campus police being forced to remove someone from the fountain, it’s unrelated.
One more picture to send you back to work.
He’s flipped to a new sheet of paper, with a short handwritten to-do list.Don’t overdose on caffeineandbeat the piano with pure willpowerare scribbled out, but it’s the bottom one that makes my breath catch.
Don’t think about Eric.
