I need an adult.

A hand lands on my shoulder, followed by an ominous voice: “You have been chosen.”  Pause.  “Bring your sandwich.”  Thus began my illustrious career as a model, when one of the nuns pulled me out of my lunch break and into a photo in which I was instructed to “act natural” and “hold that Cheeto higher.”  Coming to a Catholic teaching publication near you this August: Rachel the Cheeto model.

Other things that happened yesterday: I went for a walk and came home with seven books.  Clearly I need to move to a location not within walking distance of a used bookstore, also to an apartment that is not an inferno.  My heat system is malfunctioning, kicking out high-heat at all hours even though I have it set to “OFF.” It is currently 65/feels like 65 outside, 78/feels like burning inside.  It seems all I do is complain about temperatures; my office is cold!  Minnesota is cold! My apartment is hot!  Will nothing make me happy, you ask?  Well, yes.  Sixty-five/feels like 65 is pretty much perfection.  If I can only convince my apartment of this.

Easter happened.  Family ate its way through Rochester.  My dad said some unintentionally funny things (“Bob Saget? Are you still talking about him? Move on with your life!”).  Then I came home and my brakes failed, kind of.  According to the mechanic, the brakes were fine, but the sensor was broken, a distinction that doesn’t matter much when you find yourself unable to stop at a red light.  Luckily, I remembered all of the pertinent lines from Speed and hit mostly green lights (and no pedestrians) on my way to Target.  Because yes, I didn’t turn around until I realized the store was closed: such was my desire to shop.  Either I’m out to singlehandedly end the recession, or I’m on my way to a Darwin award.

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