"Mmmm, sweatpants."

I have just come home from a dinner out with the ladies — it’s almost break and we needed to have an evening of fun before everyone dispersed for Thanksgiving. The evening involved an unspecified quantity of risotto balls, Manhattans, and a delicately seared tuna. Oh, indeed.

And you know how silly I get in any situation involving top-shelf cocktails and risotto balls. (Yes, risotto balls.) All the fine liquor and fine food is commingling in my stomach to make an intoxicating, nutrifying elixer of happiness, sloth, and gluttony.

I’m feeling much too satisfied and cozy now to do the chapters of reading I am supposed to be doing for tomorrow and yet I must do them, right? After all, it would be horrible if the teacher showed up unprepared for class, wouldn’t it? Or would it? Must focus. Focus. FOCUS.

Nah, must change into sweatpants. SWEATPANTS.

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