Just Facebook stalked my friend’s crush for half an hour as she reeled off his good qualities and said, “There’s a better picture in here somewhere, I just know it.” College isn’t so different, now, is it?
There are a ton of people chilling in this room down the hall. It’s right by the drinking fountain, and I’ve gone down there three times in the last ten minutes. I think they’re starting to wonder. (I’m really thirsty, and those cute little Aquafina water bottles just aren’t doing it for me.)
Classes start tomorrow. I’m NERVOUS AS HELL. I’m terrible at speaking in group settings, so I’m afraid I’m going to be that one person who never has anything to contribute and ultimately fails the participation bit of the class. Also, I hate ice breakers. I just feel so put on the spot! “Give us your name, where you live, and one interesting fact about you.” Forget the interesting fact—when it’s my turn, I can barely remember my own name and city! And an interesting fact? I’m not interesting enough to have those! Google says so! Um. Okay, let me think… well, once I got bit by a little girl at McDonalds. Is that interesting? Once I got kicked out of piano lessons for putting my feet on the piano. What about that? Um… once I stapled my own hand? No, no. Why is it that every interesting fact I have makes me look like an idiot? I only pull out the big guns and say “I have no sense of smell” if I really can’t think of anything to say (because after that I’m always “the weird girl who can’t smell”).
Whew. Anyway. Wish me luck!
I’m putting the finishing touches on my column for this week. It’s all about the glory of making cake balls for Lilly. I actually had to use a thesaurus to find another word for “incompetent” to describe the extent to which we suck as bakers. I’ve seriously beaten the word “incompetent” to death. In the first draft (I use the word “draft” loosely; it was just a compilation of my thoughts on our baking inadequacies), I actually used it seven times.
I didn’t have to go to my last class today. I did, however, have to take my brother home, and he did have a last class. So I went out to my car, put on some music, and decided to sit there for a minute and see if any of my friends came out to the parking lot.
Well, I fell asleep, and those few minutes turned into over an hour. And the predictable thing happened: my car died. The monster of invulnerability that is my car… died. My brother came strolling out into the parking lot, looking forward to a relaxing car ride home with the windows rolled down and the music blaring. What he got was a solid hour and a half of struggling to fix my car, whose name is Cosmo.
When I turned the key and Cosmo made strangled put-put-put noises, I knew we were in trouble. Two minutes later, I was flagging down people in the parking lot. Claire, Allison and I stood around with our hands dangling at our sides after I’d popped the hood. We are not particularly car-savvy. Finally Claire waved her boyfriend over and we were able to get down to business. The battery was dead. This much we knew. Problem: we didn’t have jumper cables. We did not even know where the battery in my car was. While I thumbed through the manuel, Claire’s boyfriend ran and got jumper cables from some generous person I didn’t know. Allison went sprinting after our friend Tim, who was already speeding away in his jeep, with her hands flailing over her head. My brother was trying to hide. A van filled with football players drove by and made faces at him. He smacked his forehead and muttered, “Oh, how perfect.”
After a few unsuccessful attempts to jump start Cosmo, I was forced to hitch a ride home with Allison and abandon Cosmo to my school parking lot. My mother and our neighbor were able to jump start it later. Apparently the battery is in the trunk. Who knew? I’m not sure what we jump started, but it sure as hell wasn’t the battery.
I did one of those deals where you slip just a little and then you flip the hell out, flailing your arms while your legs go in all sorts of different directions, wearing an expression of absolute terror and generally having a total spastic meltdown. It’s almost more embarrassing than actually falling, because when you fall at least you have a reason for looking so traumatized and people can help you up. But when you do the infamous Almost Slip… people are just like, “What the hell was that?”
And I’m sure all those cars waiting at the light had that exact reaction.
It’s getting bad. The locker thing is getting out of control. You see, I technically have a share in three different lockers. There’s my brother’s locker, which I share with Tara and Lizzy. There’s my friend Kylie’s locker, which I share with her, her sister, and our friend Jolie. Then there’s Carrie’s locker, which I share with her and a girl I don’t even know. So my math book is in one, my history book’s in another, and I don’t even know where my anatomy notes are anymore. Currently pondering my life choices and wondering where it all went wrong.
GAH. So, there I was, trying to “manage my blog,” which is a loose interpretation of what I was actually doing… clicking all the wrong things while trying to delete a post that didn’t make any sense. Somehow I wound up deleting three posts, none of which were the post I originally intended to delete. I feel like my technology-impaired grandmother who tries to post things on people’s walls and instead makes them her status, so we all get to see this: “Sarah hon i dont know how to tell u this, but ur profile picture makes u look like a cabaret dancer.”