Lazy zig zag wispy flake crystals float past it on the sill. Glazed, drunk eyes enveloped in ennui track their progress. Bejeweled, bespeckled, beturkey-jizzumed, the formerly white mat of cloth rests like a dead cat atop the wooded, ancient table. Lynn dozes on the maroon leather couch. She clutches a frosty Yuengling in her mighty paws as the dogs attempt to rouse the ursine madre in our den. A trickle of the amber juice slides out of the corner of her mouth as a chuckle escapes from mine.
"Fuck!" I scream.
Lynn immediately and emphatically proclaims her consciousness. I walk away. Dumb found Id.