Morning Glory

"Sorry about that", says the ticket control lady as I confidently open my bag just to realize I left my purse in the car. "Yeah, I'm sorry too", I say. Sorry for myself, of course. In fact, it's 10 am and I am ready to pronounce the day to be over. I fiddle with the trash in my bag (like, actual trash. I'm one of those persons who are too ashamed to ever allow you to fetch something out of their bag because you might get old popcorn on your hands and never speak to us again), searching for something to confirm my name with. "I'll take anything", says the lady. Little does she know she's in to prove it, 'cause the effed-up paper I hold out to hear is an info brochure on STDs that has my name on it because my gyn seems to think it's somehow neccessary to personalize these things even though she routinely gives them to everyone. However, that this is pretty misleading and the control lady is even more sorry for me now because she not only thinks of me as a criminal but is also concerned about my sexual health, did not occur to her, I suppose. Now I'm crouching on some one-horse train platform in the middle of nowhere waiting for the next train back home to fetch my purse, 'cause no way am I gonna go through this again today. Plus, I'm going out tonight and you can't do much fun stuff without money. Like, eat.

I just perfectly wasted an hour of my life and I'm enormously late for class, and as expected no one else will be there on time so we're making a grand impression once again, and I bet not everyone has had a morning as unfortunate as I had to excuse themselves with. See, when I'm late, I usually don't have fun during the delay. That's why I don't cut, 'cause it always backfires at me. When I got my purse out of my care, I was very tempted to crawl in there and cry and let school be itself for the day (why did this man not sit in the empty space across from me but had to get right next here and is now inadvertetly touching my coat with his backpack? Why do bad things happen to good people?) but let's face it, I'm too goody goody to do that. Or rather, I would love to, but I kinda cut the same class last time to cook dinner for a certain someone so I already had my shot there. God, now this man put his freaking lunch next to me and is starting to munch on it and I can't even form my thoughts on that into a sentence 'cause, ew.

So it's the afternoon now and we were lunching with one of our teachers, one who nonchalantly tells you about their cheating husband while ordering a panino and a gay interior designer who's a man on the street but likes to be treated more like a lady between the sheets, if you get my notsosubtle drift, while we're innocently slurping our juice cartons. Anyways, at the table people wrinkled their noses about something hideous other people do, as usual, and this time, it was like "ugh, these days all everyone cares about is the label, and like, if it looks pretty. Like, sometimes, people are not even in season" and I was glad I had a mouthful of mozarella because I'd have loved to ask what's so wrong about wanting my clothes to look pretty instead of resembling abstract art / something the dog spit out but hey, it's "In-season" spit.

I hope your week didn't feel like your personal series of unfortunate events (love that movie, thinking about it. Weird but good).

Love,

Rosy Smith