Lipstick stains on the remnants of a pineapple enpamada. The yellowy-rusty sweet bread makes the lip prints appear a much darker shade than the lipstick stains on my glass of Diet Coke.

Natacha Atlas is belting out her heart and soul in a language I don’t understand in the disc drive.

Sounds like she’s dying a slow and painful death. But it’s got a good beat and I can definitely dance to it. As a matter of fact, I’m practicing my rib cage slide right here in my chair. I didn’t go to my dance class last night as there is an Algebra exam on Thursday night that I haven’t adequately freaked-out and panicked over yet.

I need at least one sleepless night before any sort of exam that involves any sort of mathematics.

I am so looking forward to Spring Break next week. All I have to do is go to dance class and hope that I don’t sprain something.

Because, try as I might, I’m not very coordinated.

Lots of little things I need to do, make a bank deposit, write the water bill (with the frickin late charge), reapply my lipstick.

It’ll all get done.

Eventually.