A week or so back, Kaitie and I ventured to the city for a cousin's birthday party. Said cousin was turning 8, and the party was at a place that had laser tag. Needless to say, we did not play.
However, that had little to do with the best day ever.
No, the best day ever occurred at a necessary intermittent stop at the local Wal Mart to grab a bite to eat.
We went the Wal Mart deli, which always seems to have, quite possibly, the best food. After purchasing some chicken tenders and potato wedges, we headed over to the snack bar to dine.
Upon sitting down, I told Kaitie that I would take the quarter that I knew I had in my pocket and purchase a Sam's Choice Diet Cola for us to share. Arriving at the soda machine, I inserted my quarter and was soon disappointed to discover that my change fell all the way down without giving me a chance to make my selection.
Damn it.
I went to the next machine, a Sam's Choice Water machine. Not quite the same when you're expecting soda, but it would have to do. If only I had a dime, I though, since the waters were 35 cents compared to the quarter sodas. I shoved my hands down in my pocket and was pleased to discover that I did, in fact, have a dime! Not only that, but I also had a nickel, too!
I put my money in this machine and heard the satisfying clunk of my change landing to rest on the other change inside the machine and pressed one of the 10 buttons to vend my water.
Unfortunately, every single water was sold out.
Damn it.
Dejected, I went to get my change out of this machine. As I collected my coins, I found a most pleasant surprise: someone had left a dime in the machine! With this and the newfound nickel I had in my other pocket, I would be able to buy a real soda for Kaitie and I to share!
I moseyed (is that the correct spelling for the past tense of the word "mosey"? It just doesn't look right. Anyway. I digress.) over to the name brand soda machine and settled on a Diet Dr Pepper. I hit the vend button, and I held my breath to make sure it would, in fact, vend.
The soda landed with a satisfying thunk. Little did I know, there was another special treat waiting for me.
As I went to retrieve my DDP, I noticed that there was, in fact, not one but TWO (two!) sodas. Someone had - inadvertenly, no doubt - left a Diet Pepsi to sit and wait for some thirsty person like me to come and rescue it.
I practically skipped my way back to Kaitie at the snack bar to tell her my story.
It was the best day.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
my sister rocks
I love childhood memories.
And I especially love those memories that are attached to my older sister, Autumn. Having a sister has definitely made growing up so much more fun, although there were many times that I thought I hated her and wished I never had a sister.
But I never meant it. Most of the time. My sister has grown to be my best friend.
When we were kids, we used to ride the bus to school every day. (Up until they rezoned the bus routes and we had to ride Coach Sherrill's bus instead of Ms. Elrod's bus, and we were instantly transformed into 'car riders.') For a long time, we even sat together. As a child, I felt as if she protected me from all the evils on the bus.
And oh, were there evils on the bus.
After a little while, we had assigned seating on the bus. And it was awful. I remember sitting in the back half of the bus while the high school girls used to talk about things that would make my third-grade ears burn. And on those frightening days when my sister was sick or for some reason didn't ride the bus, I had to face it all alone.
Oh, the bus.
But I digress.
Every morning, my sister and I would rise from our bunk beds (which were later disconnected and placed side by side), get dressed, eat a quick breakfest (for Autumn, a raw hot dog; for me, a strawberry Pop-Tart with no icing), grab our lunches and go wait for our bus.
I remember on one fateful morning, around 645 or 700, we were standing, waiting. After a moment or two of pensive thought while staring at the ground, my sister turned to me.
"Look at that rock," she said, pointing to it with her toe. "It looks like a penguin."
I squinted, careful not to drop my fluorescent pink Tupperware lunchbox. "Really?" The rock looked like a teapot to me.
"Yeah," she said, almost daring me to challenge her.
And since she was almost five years my senior and everything she said to me was gospel, I nodded my head. "You are so right."
Not to be left out and desperate for my sister to think I was cool, I quickly scanned the ground and found a rock that was pretty much like all the others, rounded and ovally-shaped, perfectly smooth and protruding from the ground.
"Whoa, look at this one," I said, tapping it with my foot.
Autumn leaned closer, then asked, "Yeah? What is it?"
"It looks like a whale," I said proudly, obviously pleased with my find.
"Which part looks like the whale?" Apparently she was not convinced.
I knelt down and ran my fingers along the smooth, arced surface. "Right here. It looks like a whale's back."
My sister scoffed, and I straightened back up. Then she said, "I know what we should do. We should stand on our rocks every single day while we wait for the bus. And one day, the kids on the bus will start to notice that we stand in the exact same spot every day, and they'll wonder how we do it. No one will know that we have these rocks to hold our places. I'll bet even the bus driver will notice."
When she got finished talking, she smiled and assumed her position on top of her rock, the penguin-slash-teapot. Ever the dutiful little sister, I stood on top of my whale-rock, waiting for the bus to come and take us away.
And so we did, every morning, for the rest of that school year.
I kept waiting and waiting for some one to notice, flashing a knowing smile at my sister as we climbed aboard our yellow chariot.
"How do you two do it," they would ask. "How do you stand in the exact same spot, every single day?"
No one ever did.
And I especially love those memories that are attached to my older sister, Autumn. Having a sister has definitely made growing up so much more fun, although there were many times that I thought I hated her and wished I never had a sister.
But I never meant it. Most of the time. My sister has grown to be my best friend.
When we were kids, we used to ride the bus to school every day. (Up until they rezoned the bus routes and we had to ride Coach Sherrill's bus instead of Ms. Elrod's bus, and we were instantly transformed into 'car riders.') For a long time, we even sat together. As a child, I felt as if she protected me from all the evils on the bus.
And oh, were there evils on the bus.
After a little while, we had assigned seating on the bus. And it was awful. I remember sitting in the back half of the bus while the high school girls used to talk about things that would make my third-grade ears burn. And on those frightening days when my sister was sick or for some reason didn't ride the bus, I had to face it all alone.
Oh, the bus.
But I digress.
Every morning, my sister and I would rise from our bunk beds (which were later disconnected and placed side by side), get dressed, eat a quick breakfest (for Autumn, a raw hot dog; for me, a strawberry Pop-Tart with no icing), grab our lunches and go wait for our bus.
I remember on one fateful morning, around 645 or 700, we were standing, waiting. After a moment or two of pensive thought while staring at the ground, my sister turned to me.
"Look at that rock," she said, pointing to it with her toe. "It looks like a penguin."
I squinted, careful not to drop my fluorescent pink Tupperware lunchbox. "Really?" The rock looked like a teapot to me.
"Yeah," she said, almost daring me to challenge her.
And since she was almost five years my senior and everything she said to me was gospel, I nodded my head. "You are so right."
Not to be left out and desperate for my sister to think I was cool, I quickly scanned the ground and found a rock that was pretty much like all the others, rounded and ovally-shaped, perfectly smooth and protruding from the ground.
"Whoa, look at this one," I said, tapping it with my foot.
Autumn leaned closer, then asked, "Yeah? What is it?"
"It looks like a whale," I said proudly, obviously pleased with my find.
"Which part looks like the whale?" Apparently she was not convinced.
I knelt down and ran my fingers along the smooth, arced surface. "Right here. It looks like a whale's back."
My sister scoffed, and I straightened back up. Then she said, "I know what we should do. We should stand on our rocks every single day while we wait for the bus. And one day, the kids on the bus will start to notice that we stand in the exact same spot every day, and they'll wonder how we do it. No one will know that we have these rocks to hold our places. I'll bet even the bus driver will notice."
When she got finished talking, she smiled and assumed her position on top of her rock, the penguin-slash-teapot. Ever the dutiful little sister, I stood on top of my whale-rock, waiting for the bus to come and take us away.
And so we did, every morning, for the rest of that school year.
I kept waiting and waiting for some one to notice, flashing a knowing smile at my sister as we climbed aboard our yellow chariot.
"How do you two do it," they would ask. "How do you stand in the exact same spot, every single day?"
No one ever did.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
too hot to handle
I will never even begin to understand the human instinct.
Why do we do some things, even when we know the outcome may possibly be less than desirable?
As many of you may know (and if you don't, do you even read my blogs?), I work in a restaurant in The Great Little Big City. And I have to say, my sampling of the human race that serves as our restaurant patrons do not give me much hope.
I've had people ask stupid questions, say stupid things, and order things like "hush puppies" and "onion rings" (we have neither).
But there is one thing I have noticed without fail.
However, let me preface this next bit with a little background info (as always).
We have recently installed new glo-rays at work. This now means that our plates, which are normally pretty hot, are now unbearably hot, within just a matter of minutes. I mean, it's almost impossible to leave a plate there for even the amount of time it takes to assemble it and then be able to pick it up again. The glo-rays are good for food temps, bad for fingertips.
Which brings me to my observation.
As I deliver these said piping-hot plates to picky patrons, I always say, "These plates are very, very hot. Do NOT touch them. In fact, it would be in your best interest to just merely eat the food right off the plate, right where it is, unless you want your flesh to melt together in a most horrific way." (Okay, that last part was an embellishment, but that is exactly how hot these plates can get.)
You would think this would be an ample warning.
Oh, no.
People take plates from me, grab them out of my hands, and then utter some curse and proceed to drop it on the table. Oh, golly gee, I wish I would have TOLD you the plate was hot, you fucktard.
Or another reaction, one of my favorites, is when you set the plate down and people automatically feel the need to look to see if you're looking and then grab the plate. I'm sorry, did you think this was a test of strength? I will win, believe me you. Or they give it a quick quarter-turn one way, then another quarter-turn back. What the hell was that? Does that make it taste better? Do you want to shift the food around a bit? Or is it just that necessary that you touch your plate to see if it is hot, then you want everything to think that you had reason to touch it. As you turn your plate, others that so patiently waited and tried to avoid first-degree burns will turn to one another, nod and say, "Oh, yes. He had to turn his plate. It was absolutely essential that he touched his plate."
There are variations of this example of the human instinct.
For example, when you get a taste of something really gross, and you spit out the offending material and then lean to the person next to you and suggest that they take a taste as well.
Or when you smell something really horrible and then try your hardest to contain that smell so that someone else can smell it and back you up on the fact that yes, it does indeed, smell.
But you know what? I'm guilty of it, too. I make the wrong decisions, too, a LOT, and it always seems like I end up getting burned.
Anyway. That's all. Just something I was thinking about.
Why do we do some things, even when we know the outcome may possibly be less than desirable?
As many of you may know (and if you don't, do you even read my blogs?), I work in a restaurant in The Great Little Big City. And I have to say, my sampling of the human race that serves as our restaurant patrons do not give me much hope.
I've had people ask stupid questions, say stupid things, and order things like "hush puppies" and "onion rings" (we have neither).
But there is one thing I have noticed without fail.
However, let me preface this next bit with a little background info (as always).
We have recently installed new glo-rays at work. This now means that our plates, which are normally pretty hot, are now unbearably hot, within just a matter of minutes. I mean, it's almost impossible to leave a plate there for even the amount of time it takes to assemble it and then be able to pick it up again. The glo-rays are good for food temps, bad for fingertips.
Which brings me to my observation.
As I deliver these said piping-hot plates to picky patrons, I always say, "These plates are very, very hot. Do NOT touch them. In fact, it would be in your best interest to just merely eat the food right off the plate, right where it is, unless you want your flesh to melt together in a most horrific way." (Okay, that last part was an embellishment, but that is exactly how hot these plates can get.)
You would think this would be an ample warning.
Oh, no.
People take plates from me, grab them out of my hands, and then utter some curse and proceed to drop it on the table. Oh, golly gee, I wish I would have TOLD you the plate was hot, you fucktard.
Or another reaction, one of my favorites, is when you set the plate down and people automatically feel the need to look to see if you're looking and then grab the plate. I'm sorry, did you think this was a test of strength? I will win, believe me you. Or they give it a quick quarter-turn one way, then another quarter-turn back. What the hell was that? Does that make it taste better? Do you want to shift the food around a bit? Or is it just that necessary that you touch your plate to see if it is hot, then you want everything to think that you had reason to touch it. As you turn your plate, others that so patiently waited and tried to avoid first-degree burns will turn to one another, nod and say, "Oh, yes. He had to turn his plate. It was absolutely essential that he touched his plate."
There are variations of this example of the human instinct.
For example, when you get a taste of something really gross, and you spit out the offending material and then lean to the person next to you and suggest that they take a taste as well.
Or when you smell something really horrible and then try your hardest to contain that smell so that someone else can smell it and back you up on the fact that yes, it does indeed, smell.
But you know what? I'm guilty of it, too. I make the wrong decisions, too, a LOT, and it always seems like I end up getting burned.
Anyway. That's all. Just something I was thinking about.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
scraped knees and bruised hearts
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Current mood: contemplative
When you are a child, you think you are invincible. You run around, all willy-nilly, not concerned about bumping your head or falling down and skinning your knees.
But it is inevitable that you will do so. You get hurt, and you begin to cry.
As an adult, I have dealt with children many times - babysitting, church, taking care of friends' children. People always tell you when a kid falls down and hurts themselves, never let them see your initial reaction. Act like everything is okay. Speak in a sweet, soothing voice, and almost practically ignore the fact that they are hurt because if you get upset, they will, too.
But what do you do when the person that is hurting is a grown-up?
There are so many different ways of dealing with pain and loss. We all react in different ways. One of the hardest things to comprehend is how to respond when someone you are very close to is hurting.
One of my very, very dear friends has experienced that kind of loss twice in the past two weeks. Most recently, he lost his roommate and one of his best friends in a devastating car accident this past week, before that it was his grandfather.
When I first found out, I couldn't believe it. It doesn't seem fair that someone should ever have to go through someone like this, but this time it felt particularly unjust. I felt transported back to last fall when Ben was taken away from me in a car accident, leaving his fiance and another one of my good friends in poor physical condition.
I wanted to reach out to him, and I called him, just so that he would know he is on my mind. But then I was faced, once again, with a dilemma.
How do you reach out to someone who is hurting? Do you take them in your arms, like that little child, comfort them with soft words and do your best to take their mind away from what has just transpired?
Or do you sit down with them, let them talk, acknowledged that it all happened, and just commiserate that this really, really sucks?
We aren't children anymore, but it's times like these that I miss that innocence.
My thoughts are with you, good friend. We're here for whatever you want...whether you want to talk or you just want a friend, we are all here, and we love you very much.
No matter what you decide that makes you feel better, there's one thing that remains.
You're not alone.
Current mood: contemplative
When you are a child, you think you are invincible. You run around, all willy-nilly, not concerned about bumping your head or falling down and skinning your knees.
But it is inevitable that you will do so. You get hurt, and you begin to cry.
As an adult, I have dealt with children many times - babysitting, church, taking care of friends' children. People always tell you when a kid falls down and hurts themselves, never let them see your initial reaction. Act like everything is okay. Speak in a sweet, soothing voice, and almost practically ignore the fact that they are hurt because if you get upset, they will, too.
But what do you do when the person that is hurting is a grown-up?
There are so many different ways of dealing with pain and loss. We all react in different ways. One of the hardest things to comprehend is how to respond when someone you are very close to is hurting.
One of my very, very dear friends has experienced that kind of loss twice in the past two weeks. Most recently, he lost his roommate and one of his best friends in a devastating car accident this past week, before that it was his grandfather.
When I first found out, I couldn't believe it. It doesn't seem fair that someone should ever have to go through someone like this, but this time it felt particularly unjust. I felt transported back to last fall when Ben was taken away from me in a car accident, leaving his fiance and another one of my good friends in poor physical condition.
I wanted to reach out to him, and I called him, just so that he would know he is on my mind. But then I was faced, once again, with a dilemma.
How do you reach out to someone who is hurting? Do you take them in your arms, like that little child, comfort them with soft words and do your best to take their mind away from what has just transpired?
Or do you sit down with them, let them talk, acknowledged that it all happened, and just commiserate that this really, really sucks?
We aren't children anymore, but it's times like these that I miss that innocence.
My thoughts are with you, good friend. We're here for whatever you want...whether you want to talk or you just want a friend, we are all here, and we love you very much.
No matter what you decide that makes you feel better, there's one thing that remains.
You're not alone.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
livin' time and the summer is easy :)
I just wanted to thank everyone that has kept me in their thoughts as I have been waiting patiently to hear back about my internship. Almost two weeks ago, I interviewed at The Magazine in The City for an internship that I have been wanting since I was a senior in high school. My entire college career has been working up to this, really.
I started to get a little discouraged, especially when I found out that they were interviewing 10 and only hiring 2.
However, Friday afternoon I received a phone call from KB with The Magazine informing that they would like to offer me a position....!
I'm so so excited, and I really can't wait to start. But I'd be lying if I were to say that I'm not scared at all about moving to Birmingham or actually doing the work I will be doing or leaving my friends and family at RL in The Great Little Big City.
I'm scared as hell.
But.
That's one of the best parts, the being scared. It leads way to more excitement and the feeling that I'm taking a huge step towards what I would ultimately like to do.Thanks again to everyone for hoping, praying, thinking, wishing, believing, and wanting this for me just as badly as I did. I love you!
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
you're so fucking money, and you don't even know it
Have you ever felt like you were playing a game with all the wrong rules? Or worse, everyone else is using a different set of rules from you?
That's how I feel sometimes, especially when it comes to life.
To illustrate my point, I'll use an example from recent weeks. I met someone, he got my number, and then he said, "I'll call you tomorrow....nah, I won't call you tomorrow. It'll actually be more like sometime next week."
At first I was a little put off by it, but I soon grew to realize that his honesty made me feel way better than when someone says, "I'll call you," and they never follow through.
This is a touchy subject, I think. I'm reminded of the great scene in Swingers in which Mike gets a number, and then he asks his buddies how long he should wait to call.
Two days, they respond, is industry standard. But then again...three days is really kinda money. When he asks them how long they will wait before they call their beautiful babies, their answers are most unexpected:
"Six days."
Now, I must take a slight time out to be brutally honest here. I will be the first to say that games are wrong, men and women should be honest with one another, let's cut the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter, right?
But.
That being said, I actually like a little mystery. If I like someone, chances are I won't like them nearly as much if they call me right away. I gave my number to someone one time, and he called me not a few hours later. Needless to say, I deleted him right away. I enjoy thinking, "Is he going to call, is he not going to call, did he like me..." et cetera, et cetera.
Is that so wrong?
I'm afraid that my attitude sets women back instead catapulting us forward. But I can't help it; that's how I'm programmed. There is such thing, however, as too much. Six days in my eyes in entirely inappropriate. Who sets the standard? If you get the number on the weekend, do you wait until the next weekend? Is it okay to call the next day if you really, really thought there were sparks?
While we are on the subject of phone etiquette, I've had a few other musings as well. There is an episode of "Sex and the City" in which Carrie gives her number to a man and starts to get worried when several days pass by without him calling. She asks her friends what they think. One man talks about how he met a girl and really liked her, so he didn't call her for about four days. The woman, pissed, says that she waited to call him back for three days, and so it went. My question is, once the lines of communication are opened, what is acceptable?
I've always had the fear of calling too much or too often. But then there have been other times where I've honestly wanted to say fuck it, I have something to say, I want to talk to this person, I'm calling. But I never really know if I'm helping or hurting my case.
For example.
I went out with a guy two summers ago. We had dinner, watched TV; a fun time was had. The next day, I waited for him to call me. He didn't. So I waited again. Still didn't call. Beginning to get frustrated, I actually called him. We talked; things were fine. I think we spoke a few other times but never went out again.
What went wrong?
Many months later, we were chatting. Determined to get to the bottom of this, I brought it up. He said simply, "I thought you didn't like me when you didn't call. I figured when you wanted to see me, you'd let me know."
Damn it. I tried to explain my whole system of not calling when you want to call, and trying not to feel like you're overdoing it, and the complicated rules of the phone call, but he just looked really confused. This threw me off. It was one of the first times (but not the first, just one of the best examples) that I realized we were all playing by different rules.
So I guess the only hard and fast rule is that there are no rules. Everyone is different. Not all women like a little mystery, and not all men are going to call once they get the digits.
But one thing does remain.
If you like someone, there is still that little tingle during the number exchange, and the wondering, "Does he like me? Is he going call?" and "Did she like me? How long should I wait to call?"
At least, that's true for me.
And PS. He did call me...not the next day, or the next day, or even the next day. But he did call.
That's how I feel sometimes, especially when it comes to life.
To illustrate my point, I'll use an example from recent weeks. I met someone, he got my number, and then he said, "I'll call you tomorrow....nah, I won't call you tomorrow. It'll actually be more like sometime next week."
At first I was a little put off by it, but I soon grew to realize that his honesty made me feel way better than when someone says, "I'll call you," and they never follow through.
This is a touchy subject, I think. I'm reminded of the great scene in Swingers in which Mike gets a number, and then he asks his buddies how long he should wait to call.
Two days, they respond, is industry standard. But then again...three days is really kinda money. When he asks them how long they will wait before they call their beautiful babies, their answers are most unexpected:
"Six days."
Now, I must take a slight time out to be brutally honest here. I will be the first to say that games are wrong, men and women should be honest with one another, let's cut the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter, right?
But.
That being said, I actually like a little mystery. If I like someone, chances are I won't like them nearly as much if they call me right away. I gave my number to someone one time, and he called me not a few hours later. Needless to say, I deleted him right away. I enjoy thinking, "Is he going to call, is he not going to call, did he like me..." et cetera, et cetera.
Is that so wrong?
I'm afraid that my attitude sets women back instead catapulting us forward. But I can't help it; that's how I'm programmed. There is such thing, however, as too much. Six days in my eyes in entirely inappropriate. Who sets the standard? If you get the number on the weekend, do you wait until the next weekend? Is it okay to call the next day if you really, really thought there were sparks?
While we are on the subject of phone etiquette, I've had a few other musings as well. There is an episode of "Sex and the City" in which Carrie gives her number to a man and starts to get worried when several days pass by without him calling. She asks her friends what they think. One man talks about how he met a girl and really liked her, so he didn't call her for about four days. The woman, pissed, says that she waited to call him back for three days, and so it went. My question is, once the lines of communication are opened, what is acceptable?
I've always had the fear of calling too much or too often. But then there have been other times where I've honestly wanted to say fuck it, I have something to say, I want to talk to this person, I'm calling. But I never really know if I'm helping or hurting my case.
For example.
I went out with a guy two summers ago. We had dinner, watched TV; a fun time was had. The next day, I waited for him to call me. He didn't. So I waited again. Still didn't call. Beginning to get frustrated, I actually called him. We talked; things were fine. I think we spoke a few other times but never went out again.
What went wrong?
Many months later, we were chatting. Determined to get to the bottom of this, I brought it up. He said simply, "I thought you didn't like me when you didn't call. I figured when you wanted to see me, you'd let me know."
Damn it. I tried to explain my whole system of not calling when you want to call, and trying not to feel like you're overdoing it, and the complicated rules of the phone call, but he just looked really confused. This threw me off. It was one of the first times (but not the first, just one of the best examples) that I realized we were all playing by different rules.
So I guess the only hard and fast rule is that there are no rules. Everyone is different. Not all women like a little mystery, and not all men are going to call once they get the digits.
But one thing does remain.
If you like someone, there is still that little tingle during the number exchange, and the wondering, "Does he like me? Is he going call?" and "Did she like me? How long should I wait to call?"
At least, that's true for me.
And PS. He did call me...not the next day, or the next day, or even the next day. But he did call.
Monday, April 16, 2007
like dust in the wind
Ok, so I know embarrassment.
I have fallen in public, many many times, notably this past weekend in a very humiliating fashion. I have done a lot of stupid stuff.
But the point is, you never get used to it, and every time something like that happens, I still can't help but feel like an idiot.
Case and point.
I'm at the library right now, the only place I can really rely on for internet, trying to work a project.
As I was walking down the steps this evening, a strong gust of wind blew past me, through my hair, through the leaves, and lastly, through the stack of papers that were tossed all willy-nilly into my shoulder bag.
That's right. All my papers were tossed about, including my previous tests from advanced grammar which I'm using to study for finals. I had no choice but to go after them.
So, as all of the students in the downstairs lobby watched on, I chased my belongings across the front grassy area on the library, trying to coax my papers back to me.
I tried my best to hold my head up high as I walked through the double doors.
Eh, screw it.
I have fallen in public, many many times, notably this past weekend in a very humiliating fashion. I have done a lot of stupid stuff.
But the point is, you never get used to it, and every time something like that happens, I still can't help but feel like an idiot.
Case and point.
I'm at the library right now, the only place I can really rely on for internet, trying to work a project.
As I was walking down the steps this evening, a strong gust of wind blew past me, through my hair, through the leaves, and lastly, through the stack of papers that were tossed all willy-nilly into my shoulder bag.
That's right. All my papers were tossed about, including my previous tests from advanced grammar which I'm using to study for finals. I had no choice but to go after them.
So, as all of the students in the downstairs lobby watched on, I chased my belongings across the front grassy area on the library, trying to coax my papers back to me.
I tried my best to hold my head up high as I walked through the double doors.
Eh, screw it.
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