Regreta oozed out of bed like a comatose anaconda. The first 24 hours of the morning were her worst.
And so were the last.
She snaked across the floor to the coffee machine under her bed. She splashed a cupful on her blouse - though it would’ve been neater to drink it straight from the cup. Slurping coffee off herself was awkward – especially with a furry tennis ball in her mouth.
The newspapers on the living room ceiling were piled down almost to the floor. Instead of reading them, Regreta read the tea-leaves in her underpants and found the news was really putrid.
What time was it? Unfortunately, her hourglass had bottlenecked as the concrete inside it rock-hardened solid. Thankfully, the loss of precision was more than made up for by the savings on batteries.
As night plumped down its big black rump on the town, Regreta drove her riding rug-mower up to the bar.
What to drink? A bottle of Coke—or just the Coke itself? She was really thirsty!
She drove back to the sofa and took a huge gulp – barely getting the cushions down her gullet.
When the bottle was empty, she marveled how the sofa had fit inside it in the first place. (She was glad she had paid extra for a liquid sofa.)
She snailed toward the bedroom, optimistically considered her body half-full of booze, not half empty. Her strait-jacket fell up from to the ceiling as she crawled into bed. She poured concrete into her nose and mouth to keep the booze from spilling out.
Sleep would come, that was for sure, or maybe even the big sleep. She had made sure not to drink so little gin that she stayed conscious, and passed out before the concrete set. This was important to her; she didn’t want to be in control of herself or appear sane to any one of the thousands of roaches that might observe her.
Sleep did come, the late writhing sun found her at peace. It was the first time she’d made it through the same day twice in one 24-hour period.