She could not sleep even though it was dark and she was exhausted and she was clean and smelled like gingerbread body wash and coconut shampoo and the sheets were clean and smelled like rain washed April lilacs. She closed her eyes but it would not happen she could not sleep she could not descend into that world of slow laughing angel montage dreams because she could hear it in another room she could hear the sound the sound of turtles. They were speaking in their language they were talking about her again they were discussing her foibles and idiosyncrasies her fears and regrets her decades of mistakes and terrible news. “She’s rather cheap, she’s rather small. She thinks everything is about her. She is much too anxious. She does not relax, not even on a beach. She wishes she were taller. The poor girl is wretched with all the lives she’s left behind. She lacks focus. She could be more concise. She could be more professional about it. She does not give good love. She’s a walking price tag.”

The radio was no consolation. All the commercials were aimed at her wounded psyche. Douche. Deodorant. Tampons. Mints. Big girl panties. The Greatest Hits of Rod Stewart. Disney princess coloring book. Extra cheesy taco. And the songs were ironic love letters poking fun at the little girl lost in the sinister depths of her brambled neural forest.

Pills were washed down with whiskey but the turtle chatter did not cease. Then the sun popped onto the sky’s blank page, an obscene exclamation mark. Birds were too fat and too red and too crunchy in all capital letters.

“This world is such an annoying ugly ass stupid ass font,” she muttered. There would be two or three pots of coffee and at least one honeybun.