Sara has no friends.

It's midnight o'two and here I am, the only customer in a late night coffee shop, wearing a t-shirt with Severus Snape's face on it, snow boots with no socks, an Eskimo looking coat, and a back pack harboring a pair of pajama pants, some texts books, and several odds and ends still soaked through from the flood.

And when I say flood, what I really mean is...flood.

The hot water heater at my house got tired of being a hot water heater and started leaking water all over the basement. My room is, apparently, the lowest place in the house. Guess where all that water pooled?

Yep, my room.

So I cleaned up my room--because there was no way I was letting people into my room to fix shit in the state is was in--, and when I finally got around to calling the landlord we were at critical floodage: meaning a bit of a puddle of water was making it's home upon my carpet.

The story goes on, but where it ends is here, alone in this coffee shop, while men, who watched me cry as I dismantled my room, are currently at my house, running some equipment that will be dehumidifying and anti-molding my room for the next 4-5 days.

The point of the story is, if my house were on fire and I only had three minutes, I would grab my soggy school work, my Eskimo costume, and the Snape shirt on my back.

But no socks. Those always take far too long to find.