Quinn Fabray

It was break week, which Quinn supposed meant she could go back to Ohio and hang out with Santana or somebody for a couple days. The weird thing was how little she felt like it, even if the island was conspiring to give her a life filled with fantastic adventures, pickle-and-ice-cream rain, and mouthbreathing gigglers who threw jello. Here was brainbreakingly weird, but it was also home.

She put an old Janet Jackson CD on her stereo and laid on her stomach on her bed, notebook propped in front of her. She needed to figure out what she was doing with the sorority this year, and it wasn't too soon to start at all.

[OOC: Post as open as the door.]