Zooey tried to remember the last time she showered as she finger combed stringy locks of dark hair absently while lounging on an emerald armchair. Her bedhead had given her a chameleon-like ability among her fellow unwashed wannabe-hipster neighbors. It wasn’t exactly something Zooey was proud of.

She glanced down at the book in her lap. She had been reading the same few sentences repeatedly without noticing. She quickly dog-eared the page, and set the book down onto the floor next to her among various piles of freshly abandoned literature. It wasn’t like Zooey to read one book at a time.

She looked over at the bright yellow clock in the kitchen. It was slightly past noon. Zooey figured that she had been up for at least a half hour, but still felt boozy and sloth-like. The rays of sun peeking into the room were becoming an increasingly threatening enemy. Zooey groaned and lifted her floppy self towards the coffee machine. Her personal savior, she called it.