Reportings
I spent the entirety of this afternoon and evening alone, despite everyone being home. As soon as we returned from Church, all three of my roommates disembarked to their rooms and tried ever so hard to not be seen again. They were quite successful.
As for myself, I endeavored to clean the kitchen. There was a massive pile of dishes, and I dislike cooking in a messy kitchen, and since I needed to prepare my cake for tomorrow (because it's my birthday!), it was either clean the kitchen or go cakeless. As I am rather fond of my birthday, going cakeless was not an option.
Were I a better person, I could tell you I sang cheerfully as I cleaned, perhaps even calling upon my little woodland friends for assistance. Alas, I am not a better person, so instead I cleaned with vicious fervor, muttering disparagingly under my breath and generally blaspheming incompetent people for their inability to clean up after themselves. When I opened the microwave and saw the state of it, I cried out in despair. It looked like someone exploded a can of spaghetti sauce. How did this happen? It was perfectly clean the last time I used it, some two days prior.
After successfully cleaning the kitchen (including counters and floors, thank you very much(well, floor; we've only got one)), I finally started in on my cake. It's going to be a spectacular cake, and involved me making two cake mixes (because I prefer boxed mixes to made-from-scratch cake) and two boxes of pudding. I made my own pretty mess, but cleaned it up forthwith.
Completing my kitchen tasks at seven o'clock, I retired to the living room with my book and spent the remainder of my evening in solitude.
Just as I was contemplating turning in early (who does that?), I decided I ought to enjoy my last evening as a 24-year-old young woman, so I went outside and had a brief frolic about my fairy lights. I gazed at the sky and entreated God to give me my heart's desire (not a husband, should you be wondering) and bid the world a fond farewell. When I next lay eyes on nature, I shall be a quarter century old.
Tomorrow, I've decided, is going to be perfectly lovely. I only turn twenty-five once, and it will be be a birthday to remember.
As for myself, I endeavored to clean the kitchen. There was a massive pile of dishes, and I dislike cooking in a messy kitchen, and since I needed to prepare my cake for tomorrow (because it's my birthday!), it was either clean the kitchen or go cakeless. As I am rather fond of my birthday, going cakeless was not an option.
Were I a better person, I could tell you I sang cheerfully as I cleaned, perhaps even calling upon my little woodland friends for assistance. Alas, I am not a better person, so instead I cleaned with vicious fervor, muttering disparagingly under my breath and generally blaspheming incompetent people for their inability to clean up after themselves. When I opened the microwave and saw the state of it, I cried out in despair. It looked like someone exploded a can of spaghetti sauce. How did this happen? It was perfectly clean the last time I used it, some two days prior.
After successfully cleaning the kitchen (including counters and floors, thank you very much(well, floor; we've only got one)), I finally started in on my cake. It's going to be a spectacular cake, and involved me making two cake mixes (because I prefer boxed mixes to made-from-scratch cake) and two boxes of pudding. I made my own pretty mess, but cleaned it up forthwith.
Completing my kitchen tasks at seven o'clock, I retired to the living room with my book and spent the remainder of my evening in solitude.
Just as I was contemplating turning in early (who does that?), I decided I ought to enjoy my last evening as a 24-year-old young woman, so I went outside and had a brief frolic about my fairy lights. I gazed at the sky and entreated God to give me my heart's desire (not a husband, should you be wondering) and bid the world a fond farewell. When I next lay eyes on nature, I shall be a quarter century old.
Tomorrow, I've decided, is going to be perfectly lovely. I only turn twenty-five once, and it will be be a birthday to remember.