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. 

Summers 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 filled with star 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 with big, slapstick grins. 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.

Now aware that she was dreaming, Summers steered her own course, using the star charts on the belly of a whale who kindly turned for her as a map, and arrived at an island filled with cats and supermodels and--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]

The snoring was [i]obscenely[/i] loud.

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 mixed with a nightjar--could deal with the snoring, but Summers' copious amounts of saliva was smearing the ink and enough was enough. 

Summers groaned and turned her head to crack an eye--well, what appeared to be the moon inside an eye socket before blurring to the characteristic crackle of interference--at the offending elbow, half her face still in her mushy bread. She pulled herself from her tray and wiped the dough off her cheek, before sending a dirty look towards the lizjard punk, mutely vowing to do it again in thicker quantities of drool whenever she got the chance. Then she stared at the remaining fishbowel's worth of fluid on her table.

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

In about ten seconds she'd be out like a light.