In Which I Am Unflatteringly Honest

There’s a party going on downstairs, one that smells like Argentine steak and wine instead of beer and cigarette smoke.  The voices are happy to be reunited after a long Winter Break, they’re giddy talking about what they’ve done and what they will do.

And I, concussed, am up here by myself.  Uninvited, and thus trapped.  There’s no way out of this darn house for me except to go down the stairs, which open up in the middle of the dining room, which is right where everyone is.  I can’t think of anything more pathetic than for the third housemate to tiptoe out into the rain, past everyone who is having fun and spearing hunks of beef with water-spotted forks.

This is not one of my finer moments.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.  Few people are back in town yet (classes start Monday), and a casual walk would quickly be rendered miserable by the rain and the cold.

So I’m up in my tower, reading book after book and casually keeping tabs on the voices wafting through the vents.

This really hasn’t been the most flattering post, but as much as I’d love you all to believe that I’m some kind of superstar, getting myself into pickles, even of a social nature, is sort of my forte.  Also, I’m cranky and tired and frankly needed to write this down or go crazy and rampage through the party wearing sweatpants and my Gatsby crewneck.

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