Two alarms get set (one for 6:00 am and the other for 6:15 am) because I'm not delusional enough to think I'd actually get up at the first sound of that obnoxious beeping that plagues my nightmares.

I drag myself out of bed and trip over the piles of clothes and trash that have made their home on my bedroom floor, even though my mom has told me a million and three times to "get that shit picked up." I turn off the fan, trip a few times, and let out a grunt as I flip the light switch. When I reach the bathroom, I take a solid three or so minutes to just gaze at myself in the mirror, thoughts racing but all the while not really thinking about anything of significance. I look at the damage - a few pimples here and there that make me mutter hateful words to the gods (and my dad for giving me his oily skin), and the greasy hair that I'm certain I could fry a funnel cake with (shout out to you mom).

I trip into the hot water of a shower that I really don't want to be taking, but I know there is a cute boy in French so of course, I have to. My compulsive routine of first washing my hair, conditioning it, washing my body, then face, wakes my mind, but I still allow myself the much-needed 10 minute contemplation period where I gaze at the bottom of the tub as the water flows down my neck like that of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, right before she gets slaughtered. A perfect analogy to what my 8:00 am communications class is going to do to me in just a short while.

The moments after my sauna of a shower have ended seem to be the worst. I often forget my robe due to the fact that I can barely walk when I wake up, let alone be functioning enough to use common sense – good thing my room is right next door. The walk of shame to my closet usually does me in for the day, clocking in around 6:35 am. The floor-length mirror inside of my closet has become my worst enemy. I do an inspection of the horrific things college and work have done to my body. When they say “Freshman 50,” they weren’t joking around.

I continue to wade through the piles of clothes that I refuse to put away because “mom, seriously, I don’t have the time”, until I find the perfect hoodie and sweat-pant combination to fit my mood – depressed, with just a hint of existential crisis. Darn, there goes the good impressions with French Boy.

By this time, it’s a solid 7:00 am and really I should eat breakfast. When I’m feeling hopelessly optimistic, I’ll have a bowl of Special K, even though I was eye-balling those cupcakes from across the hall. Other days I tell myself that I have to skip it because I obviously have to leave an hour early to ensure I make it on time.

I’m sitting in my car, the trash pile on the passenger seat floor representing how I’m feeling about having to make this 20-minute drive. I back out of the driveway and inevitably head to hell.

Damn, I forgot to brush my teeth.