Tuesday

1. Wake up in Las Vegas on a Friday. Ten full minutes before you realize.
2. Tattoo after tattoo. Wonder if birds understand our obsession.
3. From confidence to incompetence in 2 hours flat. You shouldn't hate this.
4. Watch your little circle blossom into a beautiful, bouncing, animated red ball. Resist the urge to print wallet sizes.
5. Failed fart noises. You will never be an 8-year-old boy.
6. The word "queef" kills the laughter. Bury bad jokes beneath more bad jokes.
7. Prod the dead roommate.
8. Consider never eating anything but bagels ever again.
9. Wish you loved everything less.
10. Wish you loved everything more.
11. Continue loving everything the same.
12. Dream of a Mexico where everyone speaks Russian.

Wednesday 2 months later

1. Cracker dust in your bed. Sleep's good, but gritty.
2. Suck cold air through your teeth. Coax breakfast back down.
3. Soak your sweatshirt on wet turf. Swear to God you hear the sky move.
4. Try to love the word "supine." Think of taxis, illness, boiled air fresheners.
5. Continue to hate the word "supine."
6. Curl swollen hands into half-fists. Be the girl who stares at her hands.
7. Mount the mirrors. Measure perfectly with your eyes and feel like a fucking badass.
8. Look up every other word on the back of Spanish hot chocolate. Heat milk with a "recipient of fire."
9. Refuse to drop the cuttlefish subject. Forcefeed roommates YouTube videos.
10. Doodle the fuck out of your arm.
11. Use the word fuck twice.
12. Thrice.

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.