Diet Coke is a miracle.

Proven drain opener, cold medicine (if it clears my bathtub, nasal passages are no problem), insecticide. It would probably cure cancer if they injected it in high enough concentrations. Either that or cause it, in which case I’m chock full of nasty tumors.

Which would explain a lot.

Pooh and two boys just came in.

I fear them.

Pooh is changing. She told me she was afraid to bring her boyfriend’s friend up here because "he said he wanted to mess with my roommate." After the initial wave of nausea passed, I told her I do not mess with well.

This boy was "You Might Be A Redneck If" personified. He stared at my wall for a minute and then told me he looked like Paul McCartney before he had his head shaved six hours ago.

I snickered, nodded politely, and didn’t take my eyes off currentPookie.

There was a note stuck in my door last time I ventured forth, advertising an "All-Night Live Band and Kegger. All you can drink all night, three dollars."

I try not to go out more than I absolutely have to.

I spitshined this CD after tossing back a Coke. It quit skipping.

Today was Let’s Rearrange the Room Day. I came back from classes and she had ripped her half apart, so when she went to work I adjusted my side. I was even so inspired as to find a broom. The floor no longer feels like sandpape...I couldn’t have cleaned this hole BEFORE my mother came.

People keep sticking their heads in and cooing about how cute it is in here now. It’s a freaking DORM ROOM. It’s supposed to be a box-like cell conducive to studying and hangovers, not a page out of Martha Stewart’s Living. Maybe I should go out and buy us some cute matching floral-patterned sheets and coordinating area rugs for her to fill with cigarette burns.

Or for me to spill Coke on.

Carpet is nasty. Things grow in it. Or maybe that was just in my room at home.

Today was also Bank Day. I loathe Bank Day. Every Friday at one-fifteen, because that’s when it’s convenient. The same man is always on duty. He looks more and more panicky every time I see him. Coincidence...or splut-induced terror?

My checkbook is wretchedly evil...no, I am not one of those morons who can’t balance it right. It’s just that someday my mom or dad is going to want to see it, and they’re going to ask me why it has taco sauce spots. Bank Day happens to be Taco Bell Day, too. They’re both right there together. Of course I’m writing a check with one hand and shoving a burrito in my mouth with the other.

What, you never do that?