IN A SMALL ROOM ON THE THIRD FLOOR of a building consumed by females and their femininity, a lone woman sits, staring at her computer screen in utter disbelief that another day has again passed her by.
Her name is Debbie Downer, and her business is to figure out what her business is, then avoid it at all costs. She leafs through the file cabinet in her mind, searching for some sort of relevance or reason why she should do her homework, why she should be productive — but procrastination is all she can come across.
She shuts her phone off in hopes of a quiet night of cookie pizza and staring at the wall.
She’s going to get it.
Debbie has a headache. Her mind races and frizz pours from the curls that fall over her cheeks. A fluorescent light in the corner of the room is drenching her eyes with uneasiness, and the heater slowly gurgles as fluid flows through pipes. It sounds like rain.
Debbie never intended to be a Downer. She’s just had a long, short day.
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