VIEW FULL VERSION: Link
Title: moncler jackets Chapter 83
Category: Other
Blog Entry:  moncler jackets  Chapter 83 2011.11.23 Josh leans over to give me a hug. "Don't sweat it, Nan, moncler sale  you'll be fine. Hey-let's not overlook the fact that you guessed Ms. Chicago's panties would be black lace thongs, like, months before we found 'em. That's gotta be a marketable skill." I empty my glass. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know." I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room that I've accumulated since I got home from work Friday. It's four A.M. and I've been writing for forty-eight straight hours, which is significantly less time for my thesis than I allotted myself. But, short of leaving Grayer to care for himself in the apartment, I didn't really have a choice. I glance over at the brown manila envelope that's been resting against my printer since The Panty Roundtable a week ago. Taped and stamped, it only remains to be ceremoniously deposited in a mailbox after I deliver my thesis in four hours.  moncler jackets  Then Ms. Chicago and NYU will be well on their way to becoming a distant memory. I grab another handful of M&M's out of the quarter-pound bag. I probably have all of five pages to go, but can barely keep my eyes open. A loud snore erupts from behind the screen. Fucking hairy pilot idiot. I stretch my arms out to yawn, just as another guttural snore punctuates the silence, sending George darting with intense purpose across the room and diving into a neglected heap of dirty clothes. I'm so tired I feel like my eyes are filled with playground sand. Desperate to regain some semblance of lucidity, I step carefully around the debris to locate my headphones and plug them into the stereo. I pull them onto my head and crouch down to spin the tuner until I find thumping dance music. I rock my head to the rhythm, turning the volume up until I feel the beat make its way down to my lucky turtle socks. I stand up to dance around in the small radius allowed me by the headphone cord. moncler coats Bongo drums fill my ears and I shimmy wildly amid the books, eyes closed, willing my adrenaline to perk me up. "NAN!" I open my eyes and slightly recoil at the sight of Mr. Hairy in a T-shirt and boxers, one hand carelessly scratching in his shorts. "WHAT THE HELL? IT'S ALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING!" he bellows. "Sorry?" I slide the headphones off my ears, noticing that this action does not decrease the volume. He points exasperatedly at the stereo where my floor show has unplugged the headphones. I lunge for the off button. "God, sorry. My thesis is due tomorrow and I'm so tired. I was just trying to wake up." He stomps off to the other end of the studio. "Whatever," moncler online he grumbles into the darkness. "As long as you're comfortable!" I mouth silently in his direction. "As long as you're happy, sleeping here even when Charlene is flying all-nighters from Yemen! As long as my rent-paying-utilities-paying-can-only-get-to-the-bathroom-during-daylight-hours self is not disturbing you." I roll my eyes and head back to the computer. Four hours, five pages. I grab another handful of M&M's; let's go, Nan. The alarm wakes me at six-thirty, but it requires quite a few bleeps and one very disgruntled "WHAT THE HELL?" to raise my weary head off the pillow. I look at the clock; sixty minutes of sleep in forty-eight hours ought to do me just fine. I uncurl from the tight fetal position in which I passed out mere seconds ago and reach down to pull on a pair of jeans. Pink light spills in through the open window, illuminating the disarray, which looks as if librarians came over and partied very hard. The computer hums loudly, mixing with the chirps of birds outside. I lean over the chair and wiggle the mouse to get past the screen saver and click Print. I click again on OK, appreciating that my computer feels compelled to check in with me at least twice regarding all major decisions. moncler down jackets  I hear the Style Writer run its warm-up swipe and shuffle groggily off to the bathroom to brush my teeth. By the time I return not a stitch of progress has been made. "Jesus," I mutter, checking the Print Monitor to see what's In the Queue. A message pops up on the screen to notify me that Error Seventeen has occurred and that I should either reboot or call the service center. Fine. I press save and shut down the machine, careful to pull out the disk on which I saved the five-thirty A.M. version. I restart as instructed, while pulling on boots, tying a sweater around my waist, and waiting for the screen to light up again. I check my watch: six-fifty. One hour and ten minutes to shove this behemoth under Clarkson's door. I press a myriad of buttons, but the screen remains dark. My heart pounds. Nothing I press can cajole my computer back to life. I grab the disk, my wallet, keys, the Ms. Chicago package, and run out of the apartment. I jog up to Second Avenue, both arms waving over my head to hail a cab. I leap into the first one that languorously pulls over, trying to remember where, in the maze that is NYU's campus, the computer center is located. moncler jackets sale For some reason I have been unable to commit most campus locations to memory and suspect some Freudian connection between logistics and my fear of bureaucracy is responsible. "Uh, it's off West Fourth, um, and Bleecker, I think. Just head in that direction and I'll tell you when we get close!" The driver takes off, braking sharply before each light. The streets are pretty empty, save the street cleaners whirring past and the men in suits and overcoats disappearing, briefcase first, down subway steps. Why this paper has to be in at eight A.M. is utterly beyond me. Some people get to mail in their final papers. Oh, who am I kidding? If that were the case, I'd just be in a frantic cab ride to the post office. I hop out of the taxi on Waverly Place, taking the disk, my wallet, and keys just as a girl in a shiny outfit and smeared makeup shoves me aside to get in the cab. I catch the unmistakable whiff of a long night out-beer, stale cigarettes, and Drakkar Noir. I am comforted by the reminder that my life at this moment could be worse- I could be a sophomore doing the Walk/Cab Ride of Shame. It's a little past seven-fifteen by the time I find my way, almost by smell, moncler jackets on sale to the main computer center on the fifth floor of the education building. "Need to see your ID," a girl with green hair and white lips mumbles from behind a large Dunkin' Donuts cup clutched at chin height. I riffle through my wallet a moment before remembering that the card she's referring to currently sits at the bottom of my backpack, upon which George is probably peacefully asleep. "I don't have it. But I just need to print something out; it'll only take five minutes, I swear." I grip the counter and peer intently at her. She rolls her heavily kohled eyes. "Can't," she says, pointing halfheartedly at the list of rules printed out in black-and-white on the wall behind her. "Okay! Okay, here, let's see, I have my sophomore ID and ..." I tug cards madly out of their leather slots. "Um, and a library card to Loeb. See, it says 'senior' on it!" "No picture, though." moncler jackets men  She flips through her X-Man comic book.