The smell of rotting, putrid flesh flared her nostrils as she stepped unnoticed into the dimly lit room. A television screamed from the corner, its face sullied with images of leather-clad girls fucking in a big, metal bird cage. Only one word leaped into her mind. Surrealism. She inwardly laughed at the possibility of a video camera hidden in the sprinkler system, silently capturing this scene for some unnamed producer of perversion to jack off to later. Shaking her head to clear away such unholy thoughts, she turned her attention back to the scene before her, and a tired sigh escaped from her lips, just another mental mind fuck in another day’s list of events. Glancing at her watch, 4:43 am flashed up at her in a luminescent shade of green.
Continuing her trek through the clutter of old magazines, boxes of pornographic movies, and dusty, tattered bric-a-brac from years long past, she turned her attention to the task at hand, yesterday’s dishes, piled on the counter in what seemed to be some bizarre game of chess. Knight’s cup to Bishop’s plate, check. Turning on the tap, she watched as the warm water poured over her hands, filling the sink with swirls of suds, silently creating order from the chaos.
(NOTE: I always meant to go back and finish this; it was actually a real minute that happened early one morning in my life a few years ago.)