*The hand grenade is not meant to be caught.

About ten minutes ago, my dear roommate Rachel made sure to say "Oh no, it’s not good. You can’t show a picture of us, ok? You can’t show a picture of all of us looking sad, ok?"

This was said while in complete unconsciousness, under a billowy fuschia comforter at about 2:26 AM.

Thing is, when she sleep-talks, she does it with perfectly understandable communication skills, which is not surprising, if you know Rachel. No mumble-jumble snoozebabble here. It sometimes downright scares me when she says something that almost makes sense. Like during our first week at school, I was sitting here in my chair, when she abruptly turns over and demands and answer for her question "Why don't you have a bicycle?!" Shocked, I tried to explain that none of my classes were on East Bank, and that I only needed to walk or take the bus to get where I needed to be. I was met with muted little groans, and the great epiphany of "hey, my roommate sleep-talks", hit me like a bolt of lightning bugs.

Ever since, my early early mornings have been entertaining:

"You were winning and now to have to switch?"

"What?"

"You're not being helpful"

"What are we doing? What did you say we are doing?...Just organizing?"

"Whew, that was close..."

and other such oddities.

I will have you know that we are doing figure drawing in my art class. It is no fun. End of what you need to know.

I was going to tell you about my nice weekend, but it is nearing three in the morning, and that just wouldn't be the smartest of not smart moves.

Alright. I leave you in pieces.

Song of the day:

Precious by Depeche Mode