It Picks Up At The End


"C'mon, Edward," I said. "Let's go. Time for school. Move it along. Last day before the winter break."

With the exception of the vacation carrot at the end there, this is standard morning chivvying. Repeated so often as to become white noise. Routine to the point of monotony. I say X; he does Y.

So I was completely taken aback today when - rather than begin the slow shuffle toward his shoes that he always does - Edward did a little dance. And then he sang.

Something like:


I will not gooooOOOOO

You cannot make me

You will. Not. Take. Meeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!


I stared at him. "What on earth was that?" I asked.

"I'm writing a refusical," said Edward.