Condoms in Vending Machines

I'm waiting at the reserve desk in the library. It's about a week ago.
And there are females. Behind the counter, I mean, fetching this and that.
Scanning things.
One of them is on lunch.
And she's giving it out. About her celery. Doesn't want her celery.
So, she asks her co-worker, who is in the midst of doling out my much-needed archaeological information on the data analysis of ceramics (can someone tell me how to eject-seat out of this class?) if she wants the celery.
"Do you want my celery?" she asks.
And the other doesn't want it.
So, I say, "I'll eat your celery."
And then I did.
That's it.

Today, I go to fetch some student grant money.
Apparently, there has been a buildup of government checks kicking around for me to collect.
When I receive official-seeming e-mails, I sometimes won't read them because I find everything official to be confusing and frightening.
So, I'm getting this check, and a student loan slave is speaking with her friend about an upcoming test.
The friend has to write some sort of garbage in an hour. And she's too frightened to eat.
The friend is listing potential foodstuffs.
"Get a sub, or some soup or something."
"Or a pita," I interject.
"Or a pita," the slave repeats, "See, we're concerned about you," she goes on to say.
Which I thought was cute.
Anyway, I get my moneys, I head out, and as I leave I say, "Good luck on your test," take a few steps, wheel about, and while walking backwards, I say, "Eat something!"
I go and do a few lines in the men's, and while I'm walking back across the skywalk (tripping balls, mind you) I see this person.
In line at Extreme Pita.
Between the money and minute interactions, it's been a satisfying day.