Alone.

I'm avoiding homework. The assignment leaves me a bit confused, therefore eradicating any incentive I might otherwise possess to complete it, much less begin it. So, I stare at a blank white Word document with the cursor flashing in my face, a partial news article (note I said partial), an open black ink pen, and a spiral notebook with the said assignment hastily scrawled across the bottom of the page. I'd much rather be reading Bob's Chinese History book at the moment, even though she will never believe that. My glass of milk is getting warm; I need a shower (whew! I'm lucky Bob doesn't kick me out of the dorm room!); I need to go to the rec center first so I can take the said shower, and all this will enable me to go to church tonight.

But first I have to work myself up to getting this homework done... a task so daunting it causes the hands to fidgit, the mind to leave the room, and odd chores finding themselves some attention after months of neglect. This task leads me to do strange things, like check my email nine thousand times, and look at art sites simply out of sheer boredom. It causes me to wonder if I should even be in this class, and makes me want to read the inspiring writings of cereal boxes and ingredient charts. It makes me copy all my CD's onto my hard drive and watch endless hours of Spiderman and other strange tales on Cartoon Network. It makes me lose sleep and write random things on paper, or computer, as I am doing now. It makes me rearrange furniture and clean bookshelves. Sometimes it even makes me wonder if I should clean the toilet or take the trash to the dumpster. Other times it causes me to call home to see what the weather's like, rather than going outside.

All this to say, I'm having a rather difficult time. My roommate's been gone all weekend, and I've been rather alone. There's two hundred people in this dorm, and somehow I'm isolated from all the rest. No one I talk to is online, and frankly, I've resorted to talking to the yellow rubber ducky on Bob's bookshelf. A rather sad existence, if you asked me. I mean the duck, of course. What kind of life is it to live on a bookshelf all the time, listening to a crazy human in a red sweatshirt, even though the room isn't cold?