Sometime during this weekend, while I was away, my sheets disappeared. My bed is made, but my comforter and pillows are the only things on it. I just noticed this. Granted, they weren't even my sheets to begin with, they are Claire's, but it's weird that they're just . . . gone. They up and left without leaving so much as a note. And they were so soft. I thought we had something special going on. I spent so many nights with them. I feel so used.

In other news, on a spontaneous whim I've dropped my session two summer classes and am now going home for the month of July. That's just what I want to do. It's not that much of a whim, really. I've been thinking about it for a couple weeks, but I voiced these thoughts only a few days ago and so it looks spontaneous to the uninformed observer. Doesn't it seem more fun when it's spontaneous? So that's the story I'm sticking with.

So, I got a 55 on the Brit Lit paper I turned in last Thursday. And you want to know the only reason why? Because I wrote 710 instead of 750 words. Forty flippin' words! I got a 55 even though "the essay is strong in every other category." That's ridiculous. So I emailed my professor and tactfully told him that he's ridiculous. I'll let you know how it goes. Erg. The funny thing, is that I'm not really that concerned about it. I wouldn't care that much if it stayed a 55. I feel like I should care more. Hm.