Birthday Celebrations!

         "Text me whenever you get off work!" was the message I received from my roommate an hour ago.
         My curiosity spiked at this rare request as I wondered what she was planning, but I proceeded to send her a simple answer for her simple request.
         "I'm getting off work."
         After I checked that everything was clean (or as clean as it could be), I gathered my backpack full of various and tedious homework, heaved it over my back with a small grunt, and quickly shut all the lights off and locked up for the night. My pace heading back to my dorm room was neither slow nor quick because I had my suspicions for the mysterious text message. However, I dared not assume its meaning, so I relaxed and enjoyed the night breeze. I even paused momentarily to watch the heated volleyball game next to the West Hall dorms. It appeared to be a game of "boys versus girls." The boys managed to muster intimidating war-cries as the girls gave their playful taunts. The game continued, though halfheartedly because they were enjoying the night with friends.
        I continued on my lonesome trek to the girls' dorm when I came face-to-face with one of my most hated adversaries. The automatic door next to Buddy's Cafeteria. This stupid hunk of blue tin contained an automatic keyhole that should open automatically if you turned your key "like so." This would be very convenient if your hands were full, or you were handicapped. Except for one drawback... It inconveniently never works!
       I then began another long and arduous battle with the door, all the while trying to hold in a few choice obscenities I wished to yell at that moment. (We wouldn't want to scare the young freshman or foreign exchange students now would we?!). With one final grunt I was able to claim yet another victory against my foe.
       Door: 9; Leslie: 5.
       "Another day, we will meet again," I though to myself.
       I made my way through the maze that is West Hall, twisting and turning, going up these stairs going down those till I finally reached my room with exhaustion from the weight of my burden. I unlocked my door with slight anticipation, but even being somewhat prepared I was still taken by surprise.
        An unpracticed rendition of the "Happy Birthday Song" accompanied with the beautiful melody of acoustic strings picked by experienced hands filled my room and into the hallway. Streamers of orange and white webbed across the ceiling, and three orange balls hung loosely from above. A huge smile flashed across my face seeing all the girls I had recently made friends with just a few weeks before there to join me in celebrating my birthday. A small piece of chocolate cake sat on one of our desk chairs in the middle of the room with five sparking candles. My RA allowed this minor breach of the dorm rules with the candles as she recorded all of this on her iPhone.
        After the song had ended, I hesitantly started blowing out the candles as my suspicions were met with confirmation. These were candles that relit themselves after I exhausted all of my air supply just moments before. With the room filling with laughter at my failure to successfully blow out the candles, the others began to help me with this task so that I could enjoy the cake.
        As I sat there comfortably among friends, I felt the long day ending on a good note as casual conversation and beautiful music drifted through the air.

The Diary of a Caffeine Addict - Part 1

             It’s a much-hated process, getting up in the morning.

 I hear the melodic chimes of my alarm as I press snooze for only the tenth time. I look at the clock with heavy lidded eyes. Unable to make out the numbers I blink twice, three, then a fourth time trying to clear my vision.

9 o’clock.

Realizing that I have a class at ten, I begin to consider how much time I can lay in bed before I have to get up. Ten minutes go by as I carefully ponder this riddle, and I softly curse to myself knowing those were precious minutes to my morning rituals. I push myself to a sitting position and grimace when I see the floor below. My bed lays five feet in the air on a sturdy wooded loft, which happens to be very annoying to get in and out of.

“I need coffee,” I say to myself as I lazily make my way to the foot of the bed.

I quickly go through my morning practices that have become so ingrained into me since the age of two, and wonder if I should make a pot of coffee before class. With annoyance I remember that I have yet to unpack my coffee pot, which sits in its box four feet above my freshly straightened brown hair. With a few grumbles, I finish putting the rest of my eye make-up on and gather my stuff for class.

            Too late to make coffee myself, I resign myself to the fact that I will have to make the five minute walk to Starbucks this morning. With only 15 minutes to spare before my morning class, I decide to power walk all the way to my designation. I can get some exercise this morning.

            I reach the door to the Nigh Center only to be thrown back in to hopeless resignation. Starbucks, being practically the only place to get coffee, buzzes with the talk of early morning risers. I hesitate for a second and other coffee goers take advantage of this and cue up behind the already long line. The line moves slowly to the cash register manned by a new trainee and I silently profess my annoyance at this.

            Finally, reaching the register I quickly give my order knowing that I am certain to be late to my first class.

            “I would like a grande Pumpkin Spice Latte,” I state with as much fake cheeriness as I can muster.

            “Oh, I’m so sorry, but we are out of Pumpkin Spice,” she says with what I am uncertain is a smile or a grimace. “Would you like anything else?”

            My shoulders sag from the weight of this sour insult to my request. I scan the menu, spit out my order, and move along with the flow of happy customers. I know at this point that my class should be starting, so I try and ready myself for the walk back. I grab my coffee, take a few quick sips while burning my tongue in the process, and make a dash to the Mass Communication building.

            I arrive to the classroom five minutes late, but the professor has not yet shown up.

            Whew! Crisis averted!

            I take my seat and proceed to take a few sips of coffee, and feel my brain becoming more active. A few minute later, my professor shows up to tell us that our guest speaker will not be coming because she is stuck in traffic.

            “Class dismissed,” he announces to a class of startled students.

            I sag in my chair from this indignation and consider going back to bed whenever I get back to my room.

           

To Be Continued…

Walk it Out

            Have you ever noticed the peculiar difference in the way we walk?

            There seem to be many different ways to walking when it comes to getting from one place to the next. I wonder if it has to do with our personalities, our mood at that moment, or simply the way our bodies are built. Maybe even all of the above!

            For instance, a person could walk with long strides, quick steps, a casual stroll, lethargic tread, or a loping gate. Even these narrow categories can be divided into sub categories.

            But I am unable to ponder this mystery further as yet another foreign exchange student, who prides herself in never being late, flees across campus nearly taking me out in the process. I now ponder the position she would play on a football team. It’s a toss up between Wide Receiver and Linebacker.

Problems in the Nigh

            I was sitting in Starbuck’s when my very favorite barista, and former co-worker, came up to talk with me. As usual she was stressing out about an order that she had made a week ago and had yet to come in causing them to be under stocked. This happens quite a bit with the company they order from, and it never fails that they somehow always seem to lose her order.

            Though, I could really care less if they are out of every iced cup except for talls, passion fruit tea, or every pastry Starbuck’s has so cleverly come up with besides petite vanilla bean scones, I patiently listen to her rant. Fortunately for me, she happens to be very entertaining when she is on one of her Starbucks’ tantrums, and I can relate to her on some level since I used to work there. Yes, I understand what it’s like to tell a customer, yet again, that “we are out of their very favorite drink” and “is there anything else we can get for you?” The reply never fails to be that very condescending look because you have dared insult them by your lack of intelligence.

            I listen as she makes her familiar threat of finally burning the Starbucks down because they have gotten on her last nerve as she walks off. All I can do is silently laugh to myself, thank God that I do not have that stress on myself, and go back to my homework.

Journalism vs. PR

            I am very much in love with all my classes. I love being in my major courses, having the same building, with familiar faces.

            All except for one… Media Research.

            I have nothing against the professor, because she is very nice and helpful. Her only downfall is combining the two things that I most despise: research and public relations.

            Grumble, grumble.

            I now understand Hannebutt’s annoying rants about why PR majors would never make good journalists. I no longer feel like this is just opinion.

            I do not feel like I have the patience that this class will require of me, and I think I might be in over my head. This class will be a challenge. However, I will concede that I believe it will be a good challenge. It will force me to think in a very different way. 

Seniority

            It has been two weeks back in the dorms and I have met several new girls to the on-campus residential life. All of them have been underclassmen: two sophomores and the rest freshman. Of course, this has also reminded me of being old whenever people ask that familiar question of your classification, and my reply is senior. I then get the very generic reply:

            “Oh! Wow, you’re old!”

            “…yes, thank you?” I hope this also means that I am wise.

            Not really knowing how to respond to this exclamation of my age (though I think that early 20s is not very old) I simply laugh it off and continue with the conversation. I haven’t decided if I have exercised grace or mercy on the young underclassmen when dealing with their proclamations. Perhaps both.