Eleven hours and seventeen minutes until I'm due at Mr. Tom Bruise's office. (No, not his real name. Yes, there is an explanation.) I can't sleep at the moment because I'm coming to the awful realization that I have nothing to wear to an interview. I haven't had the money to purchase new clothes in a really obnoxiously long time, which isn't that much of a problem when I'm at college and pajamas are considered appropriate attire for most any occasion. However, with less than twelve hours to go until my first official interview for what would be my first official not-a-cashier job, I'm realizing that flannel pants and a t-shirt probably won't cut it this time.

I guess I can either wake up at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow and go shopping before the interview—because that's always such a success—or try to creatively rearrange something from the Stuff I Only Wear to Church collection. On the plus side, maybe this is my one chance to wind up on TLC's What Not to Wear! Hot dang, that would be awesome.

Hopefully, I'll remember to have my mom take the obligatory picture of me standing in front of the door in our kitchen that leads to the basement. This is, of course, the place I stand before the first day of school every year, before any graduation ceremony, before any dance or prom or whatever . . . Most likely, I will also stand in front of that door to pose for a picture before I am allowed to get married, give birth, or die. Perhaps having photographic proof of all my bad fashion choices over the years will spare a few good souls from making the same mistakes.

In any case, neither the picture nor the interview will be happening unless I find at least a few articles of clean clothing in my room, so I suppose it's time to start praying to Stacy and Clinton for a miracle.