Room 505, Late Saturday Night

[thismaskiwear]

Katchoo had slept in late and then spent the rest of her day painting, smoking, and brooding about her past.

. . . whether or not she'd been affected by the island's latest fit of wacky could not be determined from this, by the way. Because her life was soap opera enough as it was. That aside, it was, if you were Katchoo, a very time-consuming way to spend the day. By the time she finally wound down (hours and hours and don't ask how many cigarettes later, so now she was a bare notch above being a Katchoocicle because she'd had the window open all day, this the winding down before hypothermia set in and she died a melodramatic sweeps-week death) it was . . . pretty damn late, actually.

Freshly showered and dressed in sweats, she sprawled out onto her bed and continued brooding, this time without the multitasking.

[OOC: For certain Clusterfsckians and the inevitable SP.]