I’m a mess. There, it’s official.

My roommate and I are already at that point in the school year where we’re leaving to go to class at the last possible second. Three weeks ago, we were leaving half an hour early, ear buds in, bags fully packed with folders, writing utensils, and the assigned reading. Nowadays, however, you’re more likely to see one of us sprinting out the door when we should’ve left five minutes before, holding crumpled papers and a piece of toast and screaming, “I’M LATE, BYE.” No ear buds; there’s no time to untangle that shitstorm. We frequently don’t grab the right books and have to run back, screwing ourselves over even further. And when I use the royal “we,” of course, I really just mean me. I say we to make myself feel better. I think I saw her sprinting out the door, like, once. And even then she was wearing this really cute dress. I usually wear whatever’s on my floor because it’s within reach. I’m a perpetual life mess.

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