Felicity deeply regretted drinking as much as she had. Her brain was truly scattered, it could no longer command her feet to walk in straight lines, could no longer keep her posture straight – Felicity somehow had just noticed the society’s linguistic obsession with straightness – and could no longer have her thoughts straight, as well. She was completely bent out of shape, like an iron hanger with much too many clothes on it. She adjusted her blouse and a sensible voice in her mind screamed at her, asking where she was going (its volume was considerably turned down). To her bathroom, to stand as cold water rushed from the shower head, to think obsessively about how she had no one to call in a clumsy, unsexy, stupid attempt to fuck. She could never be sexy, not even while she was panting against another person’s lips, covered in sweat and saliva, bucking uncontrollably against them. Somehow, she’d resemble faulty generator instead, noisy and awkwardly jerking.