My room is the temperature of a broken refrigerator. I know this, because the AC unit tells me it’s 11 degrees celsius inside this little box of mine. I’m wearing socks. Really thick socks. And two sweaters. And cuddling a heating pad. I tell myself it’s not as bad as last winter, where the weather hovered between 0 and 3 degrees celsius for a week, and I wore three layers while still shivering under my blankets.
I don’t have to refrigerate the beer I drink after a long week. I worked five days of 9-6:30 last week, as well as tutoring on Saturday from 10am until 4pm. I was tired. My coworkers commented on this. “You look tired.”
I got my first rejection letter from a graduate school. A very nice rejection letter. It actually didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would. Maybe because I got it in the middle of the night and read it between fitful bouts of sleep. Or because I have a full time job and can apply again next year. Who knows?
I got a picture of what adulthood looks like. It looks like shuffling around with my hair in braids, in an oversized sweater and long, pattern-less bottoms (casting aside the cupcake pajama bottoms purchased by my mother my junior year of college) with a mug of wine. Now I sound like an alcoholic. These are the first drinks I’ve had since…well, I had one while my mom was in town (not because of her, she joined). Anyway, this week has been unprecedented in drinking (two whole drinks!).
On the other side of the aisle, the boy I’m seeing is a completely different person in French. If I have to hear “franchement” one more time.
But like, non, mais franchement.
Currently reading: The Blind Assassin