2002-02-27 - 9:28 a.m.
I am feeling... 
"It's one of those kind of mornings."
Greetings and salutations.....
All-nighter. 7:30 am. I rise from the rickety futon, hurl my Far East textbook and notebook across the room, and throw on shoes, a hoodie, my down jacket and a plaid scarf. Strolling out of my room, down the hall, and down the stairs of my tower, on my way to breakfast.
I walk out the tower door and immediately slip on the snow.
Righting myself, I walk on, through the thick flurries... across Regina Drive, down the path, across the Le Mans parking lot, and towards the stairs to the dining hall door. I say good morning to the maintenance worker sprinkling salt on the stairs, who looks a bit too much like Diamond Dallas Page with rabid pit bull eyes, a bad tanning job, and some thick ass white eyeliner.
I get my ID scanned and go to toss my books and jacket down on a table on the far side of the room. My scarf is thrown last, as an afterthought, and it barely hits my chair but still manages not to fall to the floor. I grab a tray and silverware, and go to peruse the food selection.
Eggs. Pass.
A lumpy vat of what I can only assume is grits. Pass.
French toast. Why the hell not? I spear a piece and drop it on my plate.
Sausages. They lay in their tin, basking in are their usual limp greyish glory, and I am about to pass on them when I notice that they are hot. As in, actual steam is rising from the sausages. This means that they are fresh, and who knows when the hell I'll ever be able to witness an event of this magnitude again? Three sausages join my french toast, and I move on.
Tater tots. This is the only constant staple of the four times I've gone to breakfast at SMC in the last year and a half. I like tater tots, along with the random tater triangles the dining hall has sometimes. So I help myself to three spoonfuls, earning an impatient sigh from the next girl in line... the only other girl in line.
She is obviously one of *those* types, the kind of SMChick that I hate. The spoiled rich white girl who lives in a medium-sized town, where she was the high school homecoming queen or at least made the court. Highlighted blonde hair, fake tan, and flawless makeup, even at 7:30 am. The girl who owns nine different shades of Gap khaki capris, and a pair of black boot cut ass pants for every day of the week. Her exercise clothes are Tommy, she goes to class in Abercrombie, dresses down in Ralph, and wears nothing but Victoria to sleep. The girl who lives for Notre Dame football, Notre Dame men, Notre Dame parties, and secretly wishes she went there instead, leeching off of my superior college to live vicariously through the jackasses across the street. The girl who I would never be able to pick out of a crowd twice, or even once.
Another obnoxious sigh from her as I pondered the rest of the undesirable food. Yes, she was definitely one of those girls. A little syrup for my french toast, a glass of ice water, and I wandered back to my table.
As luck would have it, she was sitting at the table right across from me. I watched her set her tray down gingerly on the table and sit down, throwing her shoulders to stick out her chest as she smoothly crossed her legs. She immediately turned and gave me an unwarranted dirty look, pissing me off to no end.
She had orange juice, eggs, and fruit slices. How unoriginal. She was missing out on fresh sausages, of all things. I wonder if she had even stopped and noticed the steam, as I did.
She began picking at her eggs, and I started in on my french toast. A large jagged piece of toast paused right before my mouth when I heard a muttered "Jesus Christ" coming from the blonde waste of carbon sitting one table away from me. She was again giving me a dirty look, lips curled into an unattractive snarl. What was this girl's problem? Was she mad that I impeded her process of getting her fruit slices 15 seconds faster? Whatever her problem was, I continued to polish off my french toast and started in on the sausages.
The sausages were nothing to write home about, as usual. The familiar greasy sharp taste was only intensified by the heat eminating off the patties. Still, I ate those as well, aware that she kept turning to glare at me. I'm not a disgusting pig when I actually bother to eat... I have no idea what her problem was.
The culmination of my meal came with the tater tots. I speared one with my fork and ate it, staring aimlessly out the window. I turned back and looked over at the offending girl, who was obviously waiting for me to look at her so she could show me what a real woman ate like.
We traded turns... she nibbled at her fruit slices, I made my way through the tater tots. After every bite, she gave me a condescending glance out of the corner of her eye. After several such exchanges, I'd had enough.
It was her turn. She took a ladylike nibble out of a pineapple slice. I grabbed five tator tots off my plate and shoved them in my mouth. She dabbed her lips with a napkin and gave her usual glare. I pretended to stifle a huge burp and gave her the finger.
At this point, I was finished, so I put on my coat and grabbed my tray and books to leave. I waved goodbye to her, to get in the last punch, and got a snort in return. I returned my dishes to the tray racks, and proceeded outside.
I walked down the stairs and went to cross the parking lot. I slipped, and was almost hit by a skidding Volvo that I refrained from kicking repeatedly as I walked by. I passed by my roommate's car and promptly slipped again as I laughed at it buried in the snow. I made my way to the tower door and watched my approaching figure in the glass reflection. I look like a huge marshmallow in this down jacket, I decided, right before I slipped a third time.
It's just been one of those days so far.
<--Piper-->