Stream Of Consciousness Task

Theres a certain point in life where the complexities of civility tend to be non-adhered to by certain
individuals just because they can. Perhaps a Miss Macintyre can be of inspiration to this more than
any other. Coined by subhuman groups of youth: Yolo is an acronym that seemingly frees one of all
consequences that may occur. The phrase simply spills out prior or after simple reasoning for
punishable actions cannot be completed and has a success rate of basically 0% of the time. But Miss
Mac follows this philosophy like a sheep.
The complexion of peeling skin draws some resemblance to the aged wallpaper as the shadows
move slightly with the wind spilling on to a recovering Miss Mac. The pillow she buries her face
within does little to protect her eyes from the harsh light of the summer sun. Not to mention the
heat. The gentle embrace of morning evaporation aggravates her naked body under the malodorous
spilling of sheets surrounding her. Time to wake up. A turn of the head and flick of the hair draws
closer to last nights terrible mistake. Yolo. Why does he have pants on? Her right hand reaches
below the waist line. Its not even hard, but still Wake up. A tensing of her own waist hoists her
into sitting position. What to do? As her feet hit the ground, the dreaded hangover decides to attack
with the headache fluctuating with the contact of foot to ground. Panadol. A trek and a half it seems
before the top left hand draw within her kitchen is opened to reveal bodily fluids of sorts drenching
the Panadol box. Gross. She pops out two pills and uses a cup filled with a liquid of similar
consistency. Yolo. Then the sickening begins. Miss Mac knows not what to do. Waking up last nights
B.F. makes some sense. What about the B.F.F.L? She basically lives in the house anyway. The window
offers a more natural solution to this feeling although the relief is only temporary. Could this be a
serious thing? For every night of indulgence there always seemed to be little bits dying a little bit
ever so slowly. For every bottle was there a price greater than the material. Satiety is what she
craved, but what for? If satiety involves holes in the remembrance of recent events then what was
she trying to bury six feet under the temporal lobe. Yolo may be the character she plays but theres
so much weirdness lying under this phrase. A repression of sorts. The inability to cope with the
amounting pressures of life and existence. There is always something. Its just Miss Mac finds that
sensibility exists less outside the boundaries of subtle living but more in a state of reality so tainted
by wonderfully terrible substances that complexities are more an ephemeral