When she'd been a really little kid, Mrs. Summers told her that she'd been borne on the back of the Sandman before they had her, that she was made of dreams and drivel, and that the reason why she slept so much was because she still had the urge to return to the place where she'd been born, where nothing made sense--

It was a line of bull, of course, but it had helped her accept her sleepy, cat-like existence as something unique and beautiful, rather than the reason why she didn't have any friends back then. 

She was on a vaguely cartoonish pirate ship in the middle of a technicolor sea, the horizon unobstructed by neither land nor vessel, and the dark, cobalt sky was filled with start clusters so close that it was hard to tell where heaven met water. The sea itself was teeming with life, squids and fish glowing faintly bright and smiling at her. Also, The Monkees were playing from an unknown source, so, if she had to guess--she was either asleep or very, [i]very[/i] high.

Aware that she was dreaming, Summers steered of course, using the stars as a map, before arriving at an island filled with (hopefully) cats and models--and was that a tiki bar? Oh [i]hell[/i] yes. Before she could ditch the Black Pearl, however, someone elbowed her in the side.

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In the real world, she'd been asleep for all of twenty minutes.

[color=yellow][i][b]Snrrrrrrkk[/b]--kh-[b]snnrrrrrrrrk[/b]--[/i][/color]

She was face-first in an uneaten hamburger bun which had long since over-saturated, and now the drool was overflowing the tray and creeping towards one of her fellow punk's sharpie work. The girl--who looked something like a lizard got freaky with a nightjar bird--could deal with the [i]obscenely[/i] loud snoring easily, but Summers' copious amounts of saliva were smearing the ink and enough was enough. 

Summers groaned and turned her head to crack an eye at the offending elbow, half her face still in her mushy bread. Pulling herself from her tray, pushing it away, and wiping the dough off her cheek, she sent a dirty look towards the lizjard punk and made a silent promise to her to do it again next time in thicker quantities of drool. Then she stared at the remaining fishbowel's worth of fluid on her table.

She shrugged off her sweater and tugged the bottoms of her wifebeater down before wiping the table half-assedly with the former, and promptly smacked her face back onto the fake wood. 

In about ten seconds she'd be out like a light, again, if but for the fact that she had only picked at the burger before she fell asleep and how incredulously hungry she became within the last twenty minutes. 

[color=yellow][b]"...Food?"[/b][/color] She grumbled to herself, unsure if it was worth staying awake. And then, in affirmation: [color=yellow][b]"...Food."[/b][/color]