It’s Halloween crunch time. One morning you roll out of bed and realize your roommates have already perfected their Village People getup, your best friend and her boyfriend are pop culture referencing the shiz out of Taylor and Kanye, and your pseudo-fratty neighbors have their imitation silk Wal-Mart robes ready to make Hugh Hefner proud.

At this point, all I wanted to do was put the world on pause and take my time to digest the situation. And maybe brush my hair. But I wasn’t Zack Morris so neither of those actions was an option; I didn’t have much choice but to power through.

I’d like to consider myself a fairly sane person. I wear clothing, avoid drama, and know nothing about voo doo. I don’t have a secret alias, or an imaginary friend, or a meth problem. No skeletons in my closet, just a bulging IKEA shoe rack and a gallon-sized refill of Febreze.
Decidedly not crazy.

Oh Sunday mornings. There’s nothing quite like stumbling out of a lofted dorm bed in last night’s stretched-out leggings, wayward bobby pins dangling from stringy bangs. You brush your teeth, rub the eyeliner crusties from your eyes and attempt to scrub off that not-so-fetching jungle juice stain on your chin. You’re still trying to get the mascara off your cheek when it hits you. Did you text him?