Bed of Sin

                I come home from class, slouching under the weight of my backpack, and waddle into my room. The light blinds me for a moment as I enter, and then, as I slide off the bulk from my back, I pause and stare at my stripped and open bed.

                 It’s simply sitting there, calmly, as if it was truly as innocent as its quiet state implies. But I know better. It’s been waiting for me, and now that I’ve arrived, it’s pulling no punches. It wants me, and I want it. There’s no hiding the truth; we can both feel the pull.

                I try to turn away from the three layers of blankets piled atop another, each lush and warm and soft, but the curves of the pillows and the eager stillness of the askew bedding already have me salivating. Carefully, I take a hard swallow, and allow myself a long look down at its sheets. It doesn’t say a word, but I can feel it calling for me. I can’t, I mustn’t, but still I hesitantly reach out and stroke my open hand down the microfibers of its pink blanket.

                A sudden ache fills my bones, and my joints creak and cry until I moving towards my bed, helpless to its siren’s call. I give in. I lay on it, wrap myself in it, and we are together once more in sinful bliss.

                A gasp jolts through my body. I wrench upwards, and suddenly, I’m fully upright in the middle of class.

                No one glances my way; they’ve gotten used to this wired behavior. Slowly, I wipe the corner of my mouth free from a light coating of drool and squint hard at the white board at the front of the class. It’s littered with conjunctions, semicolons, and sentence examples. No beds, blankets, or pillows.

                It’s study time.

                It’s always study time.

                I use my pencil to prop my head up and try not to let my brain melt out my ear.

                Somebody help me.

***Say yes to sleep, guys. It’s a beautiful thing. But utilize your nights for that sole purpose, and say nay to sleeping in class. It’s rude. And if you were a teacher, you would put shaving cream on you if you were sleeping too.

I am a future crazy English teacher (with shaving cream and onions at the ready) and despite being a hypocrite, I approve this message.  

A Day in the Life of my Laptop

So, dear readers, I was a part of a class that frequently gifted me with prompts and ample time to write. I was asked to write from an inanimate object's--the ultimate form of personification. Ah, English classes. 

So, here it is. A day in the life of my long-suffering, sweet, poor, wonderful (have you forgiven me yet?), laptop.

  

Dear Reader,

There’s one special girl in my life, and like most relationships where you know you need to leave and just can’t, she treats me like crap. 

She knocks me around, throws me in her backpack, jogs around, uses me up into the dead of night, and forgets my charger so I go into repeated emergency shut-downs. Not to mention she hammers on my keys like she’s trying to carve a stone fresco out of my plastic.

Sometimes she lets me sleep on her, but that’s more from passing out while surfacing my face for internships than actual affection. Plus she’s a messy sleeper, so she ends up throwing me off the bed somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, sleeping peacefully in her sheets while letting me crash face first onto her chair. 

She bought me a bed table to try and avoid that, but being who she is, she manages to knock us both off.

So why don’t I leave? Why don’t I just stand up, tell her I’m worth more than this, that I won’t take any more of her abuse, and walk out of her life forever?

Well, sometimes she treats me like gold. Holding me to her chest, clutching my sides with her soft hands. Sometimes, she’ll even encourage me when I’m having a rough time loading, or let me rest in her bed with her as she sleeps.

That, and I don’t have any legs. 

Honestly, I think my laptop's not being fair. I mean, I give it a home, and what does it want from me? Better treatment? Pssh!

So how about you guys? How do you think your laptop/iphone/table feels about you? 

Junior Mints and Bigger Hips

                I like to eat my feelings. I admit it. On the other hand, I like to eat in general, so maybe I just like the excuse to eat some more.

                Ugh, I shouldn’t eat so much! I’ve already accepted the fact that I’m never going to be slim, tall, or any socially appropriate form of beauty. I’m a 4’ 10” half-Mexican, half-British combo meal of a small and curvy composition. Surprisingly enough, I’ve come to like it. Everything from my strong, British nose to my short, wide (or luscious, as I like to call them) thighs. I even like my boobs. I’ve considered naming them, like my best friends has to her own (Bonnie and Clyde—great gals, really), but I never remember names so I just gave up on that.

                My problem isn’t hating my curves or my wide build. Not even my stumpy height. It’s that I want to be fit.

                I want to eat well. Not just “not eating pure death.” I don’t survive on reheated pizzas through college like some, but I want to become a master of taking care of my body. It’s probably no secret by now that I have a thing for progression, and perfecting myself. I’m not very good at it, but I plan on changing that about myself too—EVENTUALLY!

                I have a guy friend named Bra—uh, we’ll call him B here. B is always screaming “Eventually!” I’m pretty sure it’s a reference to something, since everything that comes out of his mouth is. I thought I was a monsto-nerd until I met him. Then I realized I only knew half of the underbelly of the internet. He knows 150% of it. Does anyone get that reference? It’s involves striking a dramatic pose and screaming “Eventually” in a rather heroic voice. Someone. Help me.

                Anyway. I want some Oreos, and a Hershey’s chocolate bar, and a box of Junior Mints. Actually, I might even settle for the Junior Mints. In fact, yes, I would. I’m pretty sure I’d marry Junior Mints if it was legal to do so...

...and also legal to eat your spouse. 

If anyone wanted to kidnap me and sell me on the black market in Amsterdam, basically all they’d need would be a big box of Junior Mints and a net. I might not even struggle.

             Guys, what do I do? Poor people used to eat healthy because healthy food was all they could afford. I’m a college student in the U.S.’s Days of Obesity—which means that cheap food equals trash food. I don’t like spending money. I don’t like surviving on Kraft Macaroni (hate that stuff—if you’re planning on kidnapping me, don’t use that as your lure. I’ll run the other way). So what do I do? How do I save money and nourish my poor, 4’ 10” halfie body?

    

                I don’t like the answer, but I can practically hear my mother whispering it in my ear. “Victory Garden.”    

              Unfortunately, the closest thing I have to a victory garden is this:

  

Anyone else have an idea? Any super-special eating well advice out there for a lonely college girl?