"The natural end to this misguided day was, could have only been, her room. Coat, bag, and shoes fell dejectedly to the floor one by one as she shut the door and gravitated toward the bed. The world disolved away like so many concentric swells as she floated placidly to the bottom of the pool, where she landed, clutching a pillow--one trembling pebble burried face down in the coverlet."

Mamma said there'd be days like this.

On the door of one of the ladies' restrooms in Moffitt Library, scrawled in pencil:
Real Women don't hover.

and next to that, in darker pencil:
Maybe YOU don't.

Below it, in blue ink:
Real Women don't use paper.

And me, in my head, contemplating rummaging through my bad for a pencil:
Real Women don't write things that no one cares about on the walls of bathroom stalls. Or provide retorts to the comments of others.

after a short pause...

Oh.

Ain't inherent irony a bitch?