Make Lemonade Rachel Schreyer, OP Contributor “No fucking way...” I muttered under my breath. In a state of sheer panic, I dumped all contents of my bag unceremoniously onto my bedroom floor. Cell phone, discarded. Calculator, thrown aside. Pencil-case, ravaged without success. Little sticky note-it things that segregated in colonies fluttered out of my kfiapsack and coughed pitifully on my carpet. Sinclair Center was already closed, and I was in trouble. After thoroughly ransacking my wallet, every textbook crevice, those million useless pockets in my backpack, and, undaunted, those freakin’ million useless pockets once more, (what the hell can you put in there anyway? Tampons?!) I realized, to my horror, that I had carelessly tossed out what I'd presumed to be a $4.99 lip- gloss receipt at the mall somewhere—the opera- tive word being “presumed.” At the hands of my own caffeine-with- drawal idiocy (it’s a sick relationship, really. Why am I con- stantly going back? WHY???), I had actu- ally thrown away a government-issued proof-of-payment that T’d need in order to pick-up my mother’s newly cre- ated passport. My excuse is that it was shaped oh-so- innocently like a Superstore receipt (mental note to self: pock- et all lip-gloss receipts from now on, especially if they've got a government insignia on them). I had, earlier that day, paid nearly $100, waited three hours in line, and nearly missed my stats class, all for that little piece of shit that’s now lying around smugly in a dumpster somewhere. It all began with my lack of coffee that morn- inge—unwise, I know—and, oh! In my hypo-caffeinic state, I did buy a lip-gloss—which I never would have been induced to do had I been functioning normally—in which case I would have never mixed up the two receipts. What’s wrong with me anyway?! Come to think of it, other than being macked-on by some cute guy that worked at the Postal Office earlier that morning, nothing good happened that day. Then again, I’m reminded of the last guy I wasted two years on who turned out to be SEPGEMbEF 28/2001 a real uncommunicative jerk. Maybe I’m just genet- ically predisposed, like my uncontrollable subconscious urges to throw out important docu- ments, to go for the wrong type of guys. While giving myself the third degree, my mom suddenly barged in. She gave a cursory glance to the mess on the floor and demanded to see the fruits of my labour. I cringed and explained that I was in the middle of looking for it, a la reverie. She immediately launched one of her pointless lec- tures. After some diplomatic eggshell walking on my part, I managed to usher her out of my room. Depressed, I collapsed into my desk chair and wondered why I hadn’t studied at all in the past two hours. Geez, life is stressful. Actually, no, life just sucks. ; That was when an epiphany hit me. I got...“epiphanated.” My ‘eyes —_ lifted. Suddenly, everything made sense. I heard a chorus of angels sing. In fact (no really), one of them pointed out that I had focused on, up until that point, my own stupidity, my wasted morning, my stupidi- ty, a possible re-processing fee, my stupidity...when I should really just accept the fact that we all mess up from time to time, con- tact the processing office for appropriate action, and start a newspaper article detailing why passport- handling fees should be cheaper! Then at least I would have “done” some- thing about it, instead of moping around like a dateless American girl on Sadie Hawkins Day. My tirade-turned-moment-of-grace does have a point. Point #1: some addictions are a good thing. If there’s a sick relationship you’re in that makes you happy, stick with it. Point #2: start collecting receipts. If you catch people eyeing your pile of paper warily, tell them to screw off and that one of them sheets could be worth $100. Point #3: there are two kinds of people; ones that sit on their asses, moan, and sulk when life throws them lemons—and others that get whopped by the same bloody fruit but make lemonade and sell it for profit, damn it!