I've just come home - we live in this shabby house on a big street, on the corner and there's nothing on the right side of it (as you're facing the house) but a busy street, some empty lots, and maybe a shopping center or a main drag. I've never actually stayed here - we've moved in just recently and I've been away for some reason. They've given me this front room that has a big window on the side and a smaller one on the front, and the only curtains are tired-looking white sheers. The overhead light's very bright, and I find when I start to change clothes that I can't do it practically anywhere in the room - with the sheers you can see the whole room, and there's plenty of traffic outside - I'm really self-conscious. I've already pulled off my top and I'm holding it against me, and don't know what else to do. I really resent this - those slobs of parents of mine shouldn't have done this to me, they just don't care. (My parents are Bonnie and a slovenly, hairy guy in an undershirt.) I try to think of something I can do but can't think of anything.
There are cats here, Tree in particular but also others I don't know well and haven't been here long. One's just died suddenly, it was quite a surprise. Now another one is playing around, sort of jumping up on its hind legs in front of Tree, and gets hit in the head by the ceiling fan. Poor thing - I'm sorry, but I'm really bamboozled now. This is too weird. Later, as I'm looking for something to put over the windows (I think) I'm poking outside and start to take a box, but I look in it first, quickly realizing that's the box we put the dead cat in; I just glance in briefly and move away.