I have a Campbell's soup can on my desk as a pencil holder (a tribute to Andy Warhol) and I am watching it now. My desk is a bit cluttered. purses, markers, papers with assignments that need to be done, a Dr Pepper can. I am unsure what to write. I began a painting today, and did not finish it. my dorm doesn't feel as though it's a creative environment, but I suppose the dorm won't change. so either I have to change my perspective, or not paint at all. My eyes are heavy, and I am cold, because my hair is wet and squeaky clean. My hands are warmer than usual (they are usually as cold as ice, or very near as such), and I shall have to remember to tell my mother, because she would be proud that my blood is actually circulating. It is ten to midnight. My mind is active, but I lack in motivation. I am excited about this new life I have, as a college freshman, but I am also extremely nervous. I MUST do as well as possible this year, so that I won't have to return back home to a run-of-the-mill local college (as my dad has threatened if I don't succeed in producing a pretty-looking GPA), and also my future as an architect (the career which I would like to pursue) is depended solely upon my performance this year. I did not get into the architecture program this year, and should like to transfer in as a sophomore. I have run out of things to discuss. I miss the clutter of my bedroom back at home. I had every possible wall and floor space covered with furniture and the many trinkets that I have hoarded throughout my years as a packrat. I brought only the bare minimum of books with me, my art books, of course, and my absolute fave novels, one of them being A Wrinkle in Time. I am fully aware that it is a young adult novel, and not nearly adult enough to be considered a very intelligent favorite, but it remains dear to my heart nonetheless. My room smells of the body wash I use (Energizing Citrus, I LOVE it) and stale mr. gatti's pizza. there is a faint tinge of acrylic-paint smell. My roommate is also attempting to do her homework and simultaneously clean up our room a bit. My bed is full of pillows, two black hearts and a red furry one, and a very bohemian rainbow patchwork pillow that my mom made for me. I am, for once, not hungry. but merely satiated, as I feel neither full nor the pangs of hunger. I have less than seven minutes to go!  I wonder who the poor soul is who must read this worthless mumbo jumbo. In what way do you benefit from reading this?  I can't imagine how anything could come of this, except perhaps extreme boredom, or maybe resentment. There is this girl that stands at the entrance of my boyfriend's subdivision in Georgetown, holding up an ugly old sign advertising the homes and such, and every time we drive by her, I think: That has got to be by far the worst job in the world. She stands outside in the offensively hot sunshine with a stupid straw hat on, holding a bent sign and a jug of water. And I can only wonder what she must tell everyone her job is: I am a pole. "  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, with one simple gesture, a stick could be stuck in the ground, and the sign pasted onto it, and it would serve the same purpose as she does and probably do a better job, and yet that poor soul has to spend her day holding it up, and it just kills me. And I am glad I am not her. I am glad I am not a whole bunch of people. The End.