Celia Hasmann Hasn’t Gone to Church

Celia Hasmann hasn't gone to church. What's even worse is that she promised her grandmother she would, too, and what's even worse than that is she really could go. Nothing was stopping her: the building wasn't far away, college life wasn't so hectic that she couldn't spare a few hours on a Sunday morning. She wasn't a hedonistic party-girl or a nose-upped intellect or lesbian. In fact, on weekdays when Sunday still seemed so far off, and the effort seemed so do-able, some part of her even wanted to go. Though never badly enough that she ever actually went.

It was Sunday today actually, but you wouldn't find Celia Hasmann in the rows of the devoted. In fact, you wouldn't find her anywhere. Not if you looked in the library, or in restaurants, not in a large group of people and not with a boyfriend. She wouldn't be at a job or volunteering, or reading, or doing homework, or nursing a hangover from the night before or running out of some lonely boy's room at some ungodly hour in the morning. You wouldn't find Celia anywhere you had access to because Celia Hasmann would be in her room, on her computer, doing nothing in particular at all.

That's not to say her life wasn't exciting. In fact, depending on the time of day and how stressed she was or how tired, her room could be found in varying degrees of interesting. You see, if she was very stressed and very tired, there would be an assortment of mugs filled with an assortment of liquids, likely variants of tea, that haven't had a proper wash in at least a week. If she was very pressed for time, or without clean dishes, she would pick the newest looking partically-filled cup and just drink that before running out the door to a class she was already late for. Sometimes, her laundry hamper would be so full it would fall over and all the crumpled clothes would spill on out on the floor, regurgitated and left to fester there. Her bed might be a complete mess, with the blanket more on the floor than the bed itself and the pillow somewhere in the room, tossed away in the middle of the night for reasons beyond the conscious mind. Her shoes could be haphazardly cast about in no discernable order, her phone perpetually almost dead, and her homework assignments lost somewhere in a pile of papers gathering at the base of her desk. On really bad weeks, you might be able to find crumpled up bags of completely eat family-pack kettle popped potato chips, alternatively of the Original and Vinegar and Salt variety.

TBC?