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I'm sorry about this being a little late today! I'm moving out right now so things have been a bit hectic! Thank you for your patience!
As always, thank you for your comments! I cannot wait to make so many of you characters!!! Ahh! Remember, comment your opinions on things. Tell me who you like, what you enjoy, what you're feeling. I absolutely LOVE hearing what you're thinking!
Like, for example, a stunning large subsection of my readers are... dare I say it... GENUINELY SHIPPING CARTNEY AND EMERAY?? In my attempt to fill the "fun dude" void Foster left us, I've accidentally created a monster, it appears. But hey, if you're commenting how you love Cartney in all his "cinnamon role" glory, I'll make sure your character is well aligned with him!
(Also, what would be their ship name be? It can't be Carmeray, since that might be confused for "Carstan" instead of "Cartney." This is what I get for making all these names too similar. Luckily we'll never confuse *~Chemeray~* with ANYTHING.)
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: After Till dropped some intense info about how she's gotten a DEFED note too, how she knows about Carstan, and how she knew of Emilee Parvenu, Emeray spent the whole day at Cartney's place. You were all smart in reminding me that Cartney attended the dinner where Carstan was revealed, and that my whole "Cartney being surprised by what happened at dinner" segment was OBSOLETE. Thank you for catching that! We ended the chapter with Norax confronting Emeray, and Emeray....... ALMOST confronting Norax about Carstan. Agh! We're really ramping up the tension! And you know me, I'll do everything in my power to make the release of said tension like nothing you'll expect!
emeray
Something I always wondered about, ever since I was little, was why we put so much effort into measuring things. Distance, height, time. I imagine it must've taken awfully long to gauge everything out––to sit down all together and decide the many ways in which we'll measure our existence. Did we all sit down together one day? Or did someone call the shots themselves and fill us all in?
I, certainly, was taught what I know. The circle trail adjacent to my old school, four times around, is what I was told to call one mile. The long, long ruler set up by the door of the nurse's office, she informed us, reached up to eight feet exactly. The lessons told my classmates and I that if we were to snap, then pause, that'd be one second exactly. And if all else fails, just watch the clock, the teachers said. If you don't want to count, it'll do the counting for you.
We never seem to consider the strangeness of this circumstance. It used to frustrate me. Who were these adults to tell me how tall I was? If I want to be eight foot eleven, then why can't I measure my feet and inches on my own, in some other way? It always felt like another way to be controlled.
But I guess it's all for good reason. Without ground rules, nobody would know how to communicate. My seconds would be longer than the next guy's. My years would be the mere second of a snap in comparison to the layman's, especially nowadays with the dating contract. I guess sometimes we need to accept the way our moments are measured, just so we can assure there's some sort of cohesive rhyme and reason to the way we live.
