In the shower, as soon as her muscles began to relax and as soon as she started to feel fresh and as if the bearing of the day might be fractionally possible, she heard that old familiar voice—possibly her own voice, it was so familiar—whisper something awful. This morning it whispered “llama” and she burst into tears as her amnesia was lifted. Megan groan-screamed and sputtered something about wishing to be put out of her misery, all while scrubbing her armpits with a teal-colored shower poof. The last mild dignity of her wailing was interrupted by a diarrhea feeling that usually proceeded a long night of drinking canned, watery beer.

“Oh, great.”

She scrubbed all of her dark, fetid cracks—ass, snatch, and toes—blew her nose in the direction of the drain, and then rinsed herself with cold water. She almost fell as she got out of the tub and was not surprised by this, in the same way she was not surprised by the bawling and the indigestion. She dried herself, flossed, put on lotion, and took the obligatory five minutes to comb through her hair (a new habit) then wrapped her hair in the towel. There were few more vulnerable feelings to Megan than taking a nasty shit while wet, cold, slimy, and naked. Under ideal conditions she would have put her pajamas back on before unleashing, but she had slept in her clothes.

It was always the smell of burning tires that rose from the bowl beneath her on these kinds of mornings. Better than vomiting, always, always better than vomiting, though. At least while shitting she had a chance to daydream. She flushed, rewashed her ass and crotch (also a new habit, preceded by a three-year yeast infection), washed her hands, put some Neosporin on the thick scab on her ass, shook her hair out of the towel, then wrapped the towel around her body.

“Hey, baby, you look cute,” said Randy.

“Yeah, I feel fucking adorable. Where are my tights?” He doesn’t know where my tights are, where the fuck are my fucking tights? she thought. She found them. She put them on with a skirt and a sweater because if she dressed well they might not notice. She blow dried her hair.

The cigarette and the coffee and the bagel were carrots to lure her out of her apartment. Yeah, I’m like a little horsey, she thought. The cigarette went in her mouth as soon as she left her apartment building and its smoke made her sick and almost made her swoon. She had smoked too many last night, but she had also not had a cigarette in about five hours. After a cup of coffee, she knew all of her body would clench and her mind would feel elevated (ah, yesyesyesyes, elevated) and her mid-day cigarette would nicely diffuse the caffeine tension. She knew that cigarette would be the best of the day.