My eyes peel back to reveal a cloudy morning. A blink once, twice, and a third time just for good measure. My head is pounding and my back is taught as a new trampoline; worst of all, I have no recollection as to why I feel this way. Given that I'm now staring at the print of our camo pillows, I sit up. Knowing full well that I never, under any circumstances, am able to sleep past 7 o'clock, I briefly entertained the idea of forgoing the time check in order to bury myself under the forty-eight blankets piled high on my bed. However, the windows portrayed a landscape caught by a sun that was much different from my early morning wake up call. I glanced to the time contraption on the cable box. '11 o'clock? No, that can't be', I thought to myself, 'It's broken'. Of course abiding by the law that when anything is not what it seems, I assume it's broken.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.