I'm a hopeless __________.

I'm on Day Two of my last semester of college. I am neither excited nor bored, enthused nor distressed, expectant nor passive. This idea of "grades" is weird to me. I would rather get paid for my work than pay to work.

Campus is slightly lonelier now. I feel so old and cynical. (I've always felt old and cynical).

I have a date Friday night. Dates make me feel awkward. (Formality makes me feel awkward).

I would like to say that I looked very cute today. Grey Pumas, cuffed dark jeans, ruffly plaid blouse, St. Anthony medallion, red flight bag, and green coat. What is funny about my outfit is my St. Anthony medallion, which I found (or rather stole) off Sullivan Street, my favorite street in all of New York. It was just lying there on the steps of the Shrine of St. Anthony Catholic church (located at 154 Sullivan Street, NY-NY 10012) and, thinking it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen, I snatched it and snuck it into my pocket. None of this is too weird, considering the long-held "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers" mantra I've subscribed to, but what is weird is the fact that the beloved St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost and stolen articles. Some lowly priest lost that medallion, and I stole it. Where's St. Anthony now?

My neighbor who lives downstairs, Roger, is a smoker. I know because his back porch is right below my bedroom windows, which are almost always open, so I breathe his secondhand regularly. I am not okay with this since it's hurting my chances of living 'til age 95. What I am also not okay with is Roger's habit of coughing, snorting, curdling, hocking, and loogeying his phlegm on this back porch every morning when he wakes up. Not only is it disgusting, but also it is a most unpleasant alarm clock.

Today was Regan's birthday. He didn't tell me until we got back to my house, and as we embraced he said, "Happy Birthday Regan" and quickly scampered to his car. I turned, a quizzical look plastered on my face. I feel like a real schmuck.