Looking out of her window, listening to Witch’s Brew by Miles Davis, Mona sipped whiskey and coke out of an old amusement park Lemonade cup. She wasn’t feeling quite her baddest-bitch-self that evening. Sure, she’d spent the weekend gallivanting about town with her friends and spending time in strange men and women’s beds, but that wasn’t the part of her that felt neglected. Mona turned her head over her shoulder and regarded her room. Most of her belongings were still in bags and boxes. She had only bothered to unpack her clothes and hang them in the closet so she’d have her full arsenal of evening wear to choose from. Her drink starting to hit her, she bent down to open the box closest to her having forgotten what it contained. She let out a squeal, relieved it was something that wouldn’t motivate her to unpack any more. With a twirl, she knocked a beanbag off the stack of five in the corner onto the floor and plopped down to reread the first volume of Scott Pilgrim.
A shadowy figure resembling Mona’s outline peered out from behind her closet door and smiled. With her room still a mess, the figure knew she’d have difficulty being productive by any stretch of the imagination. As Mona continued to read and drink, the figure drew closer and began to suck the drive out of her. By the end of the night, Procrast was certain she’d have her claws deep within Mona’s back once again.
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