You would find a rather large woman sitting in a rather large green chair wearing blue pajama pants smeared with cinnamon roll frosting (marks left by the Tibbles on Wednesday) and a black cardigan sweater coated in cat hair. Her own hair is a greasy mess that she has ruffled into greasy spikes, because it makes her laugh everytime she catchers her reflection in the laptop’s reflective screen.
On the arm of the chair is a pair of orange socks and three books (If on a winter’s night a traveler, Winesburg, Ohio, and The Scribner Anthology of Contemporary Short Ficiton). There are too many things on the table next to her to list, not to mention the window sill that is in reach of her go-go-gadget arms.
She sings along loudly to “Confetti” by The Lemonheads, only you can’t hear The Lemonheads because she’s wearing her favorite cans.
This, darling ones, is why it is best that I live alone.