IC: Amaranth Desire, wishing the dwarven hammers smashing into the sides of her skull in search of Mithril would JUST GO AWAY

She'd missed history, she knew that... And she had a mind to miss the rest of the day and just stay in the blissful silence of her dorm room. Her pajama pants and shirt were extremely comfortable, and the last thing she needed was to open the package sitting on her desk and face the reality of another male uniform. She had enough of a headache as it was, calling up that idiot at the distribution office would not help at all. Nah, she'd rather stay right here, stay on ibuprofen, not face Chatsworth's YELLING.

But that DAMN ALARM was going off. And it was all the way across the room.

And after the crap she'd pulled in Combat and over the weekend, she couldn't afford to miss another class, and from a pragmatic perspective... She was getting hungry.

Amy rose up in bed, rubbing her eyes and grabbing the bottle of Ibuprofen off of the table near her, pouring out the maximum recommended dosage and swallowing the pills in one go. Her collar snapped back into place, but she wasn't getting out of her pajamas. At worst, the pants looked like yoga pants and the shirt was just an ordinary t shirt.

Screw dress code.

Screw uniforms.

Screw the DAMN DISTRIBUTION DEPARTMENT.

...

And screw that dang punk rock the kids are listening to these days.

***