The bedroom door is half-broken. It means that it only works half the time while the other half, I am either struggling to let myself out of the room or someone else is trying to barge their way in. It's funny until I realise that I might one day end up under inconsequential house - err, room arrest, and my only regret will be that my Seriously Delicious half-eaten cheeseburger will be going to waste in the fridge. (yea, foodslut)
Now excuse me while I go and write a 1000-word report on emotional labour and its significance in job context. Seems like a huge leap from painting in acrylic and doing figure drawings just two weeks ago, huh? Yea, I don't know how I got here either.