Wednesday

1. You're just not that into Wednesdays.

Tuesday

1. It's too goddamn early to be untangling leaves.
2. Tell Steve Asbury your name is Darcie. And you are an ad major. Aand... Smile awkwardly at your hands. THE END, STEVE ASBURY. THE END.
3. Promise to think about monsters. Worry about Russian instead.
4. Vomit large, incoherent chunks of cyrillic all over Condon 121. Manage to offend everyone.
5. Sleepy eyes, a sore back. Every set in slow motion. We're glued to the clock.
6. Forget to involve your bike in the "locking your bike to the bike rack" process. Consider actually sleeping someday.
7. Yell at Evan. Every class is full, your minor is pointless, all classes are pointless, your life is pointless, you hate everyone, everyone is pointless - Hang up. Breathe. Apologize.
8. Wash and dry your keys. Rub said keys against face. Burn a little.
9. Think about all the monsters you haven't been thinking about. Decide "in poor taste" is the only way.
10. Self-conscious elbows in your face, your hair, your... elbow.

Monday

1. A soggy breakfast bribe.
2. Three planks of plywood and an extra set of hands.
3. The leaves fold in on themselves, hide the writing, their purpose.
4. Bodies sprawl over lawns, on benches, in bushes. November forgets.
5. Scribbled holes in my homework. Another "да" and half-hearted "конечно."
6. Same girl laughs in the library. Tells childhood stories to a boy who is not Sterling.
7. Fracchia keeps smiling at the wall. Keeps talking to books, his desk, my backpack... I make faces in the window.
8. November 17, 2008 at 4:26 p.m. Clark Honors College finally achieves maximum pretentiousness. HumBEHR, Neckbeard? HumBEHR?
9. The Great God Wide Hip leaves KFC forever, asks if anyone wants to see his rock.
10. Replace Dana with yogurt and an issue of Glamour. Productivity stays low.

Sunday

1. Slow movements into morning. Brain fails to register anything but bladder.
2. A sweater, a book, expensive tea. Winter is pretentious.
3. Defile Star Watch. Lay the living room with famous faces and price-cut produce.
4. Moss promises on plywood. A furry forty thousand.
5. "Glue sticks" is not the proper name for "glue for hot glue guns." Aisle 3 disappoints.
6. Too much goddamn chocolate.
7. A knock on the door and a boy in my bed.
8. Plot summaries between commercials. Jesus, Terri Hatcher. Even when you keep up, you can't keep up.
9. Evan's pages flip faster.
10. Sleep comes easy.

Saturday

1. Spasmodic kicks into the waking world. This blanket just won't lay right.
2. Downstairs, the futon is cold but comfortable. Breath slows, eyes close, and you're gone.
3. Voices drop suddenly in the doorway. Guilt creeps in, prods you into consciousness.
4. And back in your room, back in your bed, back of his head, his neck, his cheeks and chest, you torture the innocent. Shove him straight into Saturday.
5. Sticky bits of cinnamon stray beneath your nails and Goddamnit. You hate having hands.
6. Moss peels easily from the trees. Releases swarms of tiny insects that flee to your elbow for safety.
7. Just outside the fitting room, the little girls throw their shoulders back, stand too tall, wear clothes meant for women. Their 6th grade secrets hang loose from gangly limbs.
8. Strangers sway and scream, give in to nervous laughter when the washboard lights on fire.
9. All spikes and skin, the jacket hangs heavy. But the pressure feels warm, right, safe.
10. Everything muffled and ringing.

Friday

1. Up at 7, down at 8... 9, 10, 11, quarter til 12...
2. Hair and teeth unbrushed, mascara streaks beneath your eyes -- You're either tired or edgy.
3. Lingual epiphany. Russian sounds like Russian.
4. A pretty window made of crayon. CRAY-on.
5. Skin peels off like sheets in the shower and Oh. Leprosy.
6. Staples and string. Autumn fits perfectly in two paper bags. One has handles.
7. Thousands of third graders gain access to fog machines. Privileges abused, misused, revoked before we make it home.
8. Regret, pumpkin ice cream, regret.
9. Marco has morals.
10. Sleep isn't, really.

Thursday

1. Nothing gets done, really.
2. Humbert Humbert feels too real. Overthink Nabokov's sexual perversions.
3. Backs arch over big, blue balls. Let's talk about your own perversions.
4. Bored palates call for quiche.
5. Hands where they shouldn't be, everyone tucking the tag.
6. Enter Shane, apartment left.
7. Jenga blocks down my pants. A tower on my butt.
8. Parties you don't go to, beer pong you can't play. Tell the boy with the black eye you're in high school.
9. Past meets present. Even slips it some tongue.
10. Race home laughing, nervous, laughing. You can still drive stick.