Today, I exercised my civil right and duty. I visited the small church one and a half blocks away, got a sticker, and went for free Chipotle. Oh, did I forget to mention I voted?
That's right. With a wait time of twenty minutes, voting on campus was not the hassle everyone claims it to be. Plus, how can you possibly pass up free Chipots? I literally believe that over fifty percent of the people voting voted only because of the promised free food. What can I say? College kids are fatties and willing to go through pretty much everything for free stuff... even *audible gasp* decide the fate of our country.
Generally speaking, my week of intense hell is over. I must rejoice. However, I am now responsible for actually keeping up with everything, including (but not limited to) homework, friendship revival and re-establishment, being nice to people I don't like, staying in shape, and doing my laundry. Geez, I hate having free time.
The project I am currently focusing on is the formation of a creative nonfiction story. As Cassie pointed out, the term "creative nonfiction" seems inherently self-contradictory. However, this form of literature is apparently flourishing and "all the rage in Paris." (Note to reader: I completely made that last part up. Okay, love ya.)
In other news, my Christmas season has officially started. What does this mean to you? It simply means that if you ever stop by Territorial Hall 456, and I am present, you have a very large array of Christmas music and cheer to choose from.
Apparently, though, Steve has just informed me some rubbish about how "Christmas season isn't until after Thanksgiving." Whatever that means. For me, it is difficult to last through Halloween without Christmas cheer and decorations. He did, though, encourage me to decorate our room with Christmas stuff, which is always in an abundance at my house. I can ensure you that if you ever make it to my dorm room during the few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, you will feel right at home.
You won't be, though. Don't think this entitles you to sleep on our futon. Go home, you hobo.
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