Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Why is it that people insist on parking outside Willetts Central at a severe angle, directly in front of the overhang? So that innocent people are forced to park behind them and walk an extra twenty feet to the door?
The green, rusty Olds idled in front of the overhang that is labeled "AF" in masking tape (no, I still don't know why). Janna pulled up behind it, and the driver shot her an annoyed look. Annoyed? Because she had a passenger to drop off who desperately needed to get back to her dorm room and send out rehearsal logs and study macroeconomics.
I hauled myself in my pajamas, along with my prompt book, management book, macro notes, laptop and gigantic purse, out of the car to the rhythm of the leopard bobblehead on the dash. Dragging myself towards the door and fishing in the aforementioned purse, I eventually unearthed my backwards-printed ID card and managed to slide it through the scanner while balancing my life in my two hands, on my head, and on my left knee.
In the meantime, Blonde A emerges from her emerald limousine, lifting her teeny Louis Vuitton purse and a cell phone and shimmies past me as I hold the door open with the pinky toe of my right foot. Stumbling as the heaviness of her hair brushes my face, I am again reminded of why I loved living in South.
Although, seeing Krysten in my room does improve my attitude tremendously.
. celebrate . `@ 11:34 PM
