There are so many things I have to do before I leave.
Important things, like trying out Six Feet Under, or canoeing around HarvardGirl's lake while her dog swims in circles on the shore.
Very important things, like cutting down my To Read list from 46 books (please for the love of God don't recommend anything to me), or lining Peeps up along the road with Subcontinent and hiding in the bushes while cars run them over and we see little splotches of yellow (or blue or pink) rotating around their tires all the way down the road.
Extremely important things, like locking the door, pulling down the blinds, and pretending I'm off being incredibly social while in fact I am hanging out with my parents for another of my family's excellent--and rapidly decreasing--Friday Pizza and Movie Nights.
All of these things are hanging over my head, true, but today, walking to pick up the car after school, I did something that I have been meaning to do for four years. Something rash and impulsive and vaguely illegal. Something literary.
I entered the English Building of Damn Big Midwestern University and proceeded to the first floor women's restroom. I sat in one of the stalls. The walls surrounding me were coated, almost artistically, with old pieces of advice, rants, and even poems. "I have the love of a good man," reads one line." "Do you?" someone cynically replied in pink marker.
I took out my Sharpie and, muttering vaguely Irish apologies under my breath, wrote between a Shakespeare sonnet and a complaint about the dining halls, "Never work in a protractor factory."
I judged it to be perfect advice. Cryptic. Satisfying.
That's one thing down.