The sunlight beamed through the open drapes illuminating the wrinkled bed sheets and stiffened semen stains. She lay with her breasts exposed, sprawled in the sunlight as though to sacrifice herself to Apollo himself. Her mascara from the night before had streaked down her cheeks and neck, leaving grey blotches on the pillow. There was blood in her mouth, but she swallowed. 

 The day was young and birds whistled in the cherry tree outside her window. They whistled a song of happiness and cheer, a tune of carefree ignorance to the rest of the world.  She listened while catatonically staring at the spackled ceiling wondering what exactly happened the night before. 

 She remembered Steven’s house. She remembered the blow. Damn there was a lot of blow. She remembered dancing on the couch and spilling her drink. Someone helped her up somewhere. Then she was in someone’s car. 

 She crawled to the edge of the bed to find her clothes and cigarettes. Her ass hole was tore, which made her think it could have been Byron, but he was in Palm Springs that week. It didn’t fucking matter. This wasn’t the first time she had woken up in this state, and she knew, it probably wouldn’t be the last. She was a whore when she was drunk, and deep down she blamed herself. She tried to shrug it off, chalk it up to being young. You only live once. She was drunk for god’s sake. 

 But it chipped at her, under the tattoos and fake tits and anal fissures. It chipped at her every single day. She lit a cigarette and walked to the window. It was almost noon and the street below was busy with very important people in a hurry to do very important things which would certainly have a very large impact on society. 

 The birds still sang. She drug her cigarette and exhaled.
 “Fuck you, birds. “