1 Chapter 1

I have issues with a lot of things, but claustrophobia isn't one of them. In fact, I consider waking up buried under blankets, a comforter, the poofy green quilt my mom made for me while I was in college, and a pile of spare pillows to be a pretty ideal start to a day. And today, by all indication, was going to start well.

When I woke up I was toasty warm and slightly smothered. It was nice, so I luxuriated for a moment or two before pulling the covers down enough to see my alarm clock. It was five o'five in the morning. The alarm wouldn't go off for another two hours.

Well, actually, it wouldn't go off at all. I don't like alarms, so I reached out from under the covers and turned it off. I've had that clock for five years, and it hasn't gone off once. Remember how I said I have issues with lots of things? Alarms are one of them. Other people might wake up early, look at the clock and think: sweet, ten more minutes, and go back to sleep. I'll look at it and go: dammit, that thing's going to go off in two more hours. Screw it, may as well start my day now.

Seriously, I hate alarms. I've even been known to sit by the microwave so I can hit cancel when it reaches one second, in order to prevent it from beeping at me. Slowly irradiating myself seems a small price to pay.

So anyway, I extricated myself from my bed, leaving it looking like the nest of some large burrowing creature, slipped on my fuzzy slippers and padded over to the bathroom to continue my morning routine. I am a fan of routines. If I know what's going to happen next then I don't have to worry about what's going to happen next. If I do have to worry, then I worry hardcore, and a serious freak out, along with scattered panic attacks and bouts of paranoia, become inevitable. Not pleasant to admit, but what can I say? I think I know myself pretty well. And any surprises, unforeseen issues, or changes in routine go on my 'issues' list.

I live in a studio apartment. It's small, but the rent is cheap and I don't mind small spaces. It's also on the ground floor of a one story building, so I don't have to worry about crashing through the floor into the apartment below or having someone crash through my ceiling because they were too enthusiastic about stomping around to annoy their downstairs neighbor. Of course, since it's a studio apartment on the ground floor I never, ever open the curtains. I have one of those big sliding glass window/door things leading onto the patio. Which is kinda stupid, since my front door is right next to it, but hey, I'm not an architect. I mean, it's totally indefensible and in the event of a zombie apocalypse all of these apartments are going to be the equivalent of canned food, but I guess it's aesthetic or something. I know this falls under 'bouts of paranoia,' but the thought that any random passerby could look in and see the entirety of my home is just creepy.

It's not that I really think someone would want to peep on me, intellectually. I mean, sure, I like to walk around in my pajamas at five in the morning. They're comfy, and they're what I wore to bed. They're also the flannel equivalent of full-body powered battle armor, which is to say: non-sexy. Which is fine, because neither am I. In fact, I'm twiggy enough that from a distance I'm occasionally mistaken for a boy. And I'm okay with that. Sex? Tops my issues list. No thank you.

Really, the curtains thing is just because Dad always told me to be wary of pervy opportunists, and I just have a thing about privacy. I don't even have an account on any of those social networking sites that got so popular while I was in college. Besides, I can't expect a peeper to know there's nothing peep-worthy in my apartment until after the initial peeping, so it's better to just cut that option off preemptively, right?

Anyway, my apartment is divided into two rooms. The main room is split into a kitchen and my bedroom/living space by a small counter and some hanging cabinets. And the second room, which even gets its own door, is my bathroom, just to the right as you enter the kitchen. The bathroom is also small, since that's the theme of my apartment, with just enough space to cram in the necessities of a restroom. There isn't even a tub, just a shower stall -- and yes, I added a few locks to the bathroom door in order to stave off some Hitchcockian dread. I've never even seen that movie, but that particular scene is famous enough to freak me out a little anyway.

I flipped on the light and turned to the mirror over my sink. I'm scrawny, and about average height, I guess. I have blue eyes and blonde hair. I try to keep it short because I don't really know what to do with it when it isn't. It tends to look like I've just woken up even after I've combed the snarls out and been on my feet for hours -- I suspect that close proximity to my thought processes has caused it to soak up a certain level of erraticity. I've given up on getting it to look good. It's just going to do whatever the hell it wants, anyway.

After dealing with the inevitable morning tangles I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth, then went back into the kitchenette for breakfast, which consisted of toaster-pancakes, microwaveable bacon, a raspberry yogurt and scrambled eggs -- because I can never successfully make them over easy. I picked up the manga I've been reading -- that's a graphic novel drawn in the Japanese anime style, for the uninitiated -- off my shelf while I was waiting on the toast and bacon, and I read while I ate. It was a good way to spend one of those extra hours I had from waking up early. Which is why I do this every morning.