It is Wednesday, and I don't have class on Wednesdays. And I am awake before my class would normally be over, which is not normal. Anyway, Victoria spent the night with me last night, so I at least tried to wake up before she did so that she wouldn't be the one to wake me up all pouncing on me and such. Well, she's still sacked out on the futon, and I'm making cinnamon rolls.
That reminds me of the slumber parties we girls had a children. You try to fit thirty-seven eight-year-old girls and their sleeping bags, pillows, stuffed animals, junk food, and for what ever reason, Caboodles into a living room for a night. In the morning, what was a breeding-ground for hyperactivity, shrills, and giggles has turned into a wasteland of lifeless, sprawled-out ragdolls. Or landmines, if you prefer to provoke your post-traumatic stress of being stepped on my the girl whose mother insists she come home at 8:00 am while she's scrambling around trying to find all the pieces to her game of Girl Talk. It seems somewhere it that tragic morning, the little hostess' mom has made some cinnamon rolls or brought doughnuts or something. Then it doesn't matter matter that you have fingernail polish on your pillowcase or that you'll never find your other sock. That is, until your mom gets there to pick you up.
Okay, the cinnamon rolls are done, so I'm going to ice them and wake Victoria up.