I awake majestically smelling the sweetness of my own feminine perfume, wafting visibly through my trashy cabana, carried by the wayward winds of the West Indies, aka Catalina Island.  Having neglected to close the door or dissemble & disrobe under the protective romantic shadow of my bloody mosquito netting, I am now blistered head to toe, itchy, sore, and ostensibly ready to face the day, for only I know how to deal with this trauma:  I need only smother myself in fresh urine, for I am an educated gal-pal, awaiting a better half to replace Brenda, my prior sassy concubient rube.
Should you find yourself in her company, may I suggest that you keep close tab on your hygiene and your belongings, because - as a kindred spirit - she won't.  She is an adult child born of the Midwestern cornfields she abandoned along with her family, shortly before Stephen King wrote those dreadful books.  She saved every dime criss-crossing the country in a haphazardly south-westwardly direction until she discovered Mendocito and turned its smashed-cockroach-laced margaritas into treasure and further decided that I wasn't her cup of soup du jour.  But who is?