<div class="floatright">(http://i1013.photobucket.com/albums/af255/fellea/SimonStich.jpg)</div><strong>Character:</strong>Simon Tuttle (Stitch)<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Dorms<br/><strong>Doing:</strong>Morning Rituals<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><br/>Morning. Simon loathed mornings. It was that most terrible time of day when one woke from the sweet, soothing lull of a barely conscious half sleep world to the real one. Full of deadlines and worst of all-<br/><br/><em>THUD</em><br/><br/>- gravity.<br/><br/>"Mother FUCK! I told those clowns last year at the end of term to install us better padding on beneath these sand paper carpets!" Yowled the irritable junior from the tangle of sheets he'd become on the floor beside his bed. Rubbing his jaw, Simon gave the bones inside it a snap and crack to align whatever the fall might have popped out of place. Still grouching, he hauled himself up bodily and scrabbled blindly for his spotted blue housecoat. Time for caffeine.<br/><br/>Never mind it was already well past morning. Never mind he was slothing around in his boxers with the day before yesterday's twelve o'clock shadow darkening his face, Simon was going to freshen up the pot in the kitchen, brush his pearlies, drop off the morning deposit, and head back to his room with a steaming cup full of sugar and cream with some coffee. Toiletries in hand, the mad genius shuffled down the hall, into the cluck and clutter of the common room, and<em>SLAMMED</em>the door of the kitchen open with a resounding bang. Finding the bottom of the pot full of hot, congealed slime, he set about the mechanical motions of making something drinkable appear in the big machine. Scratching at his hair, Simon paid little mind to whoever was doing whatever in the shared space between his side of the dorms and the girl's. Eyeing the ladies through slitted lids and disheveled spikes of hair, Simon continued his shuffle back down the hall toward the men's room. He nudged his way into the sink nearest the window, and began lathering up, beating the overnight fuzz up and out of his mouth like it owed him money. Spit, rinse, repeat, and he was performing the dirty Simon shuffle back down toward the kitchen again. It was like clockwork really. An hour before the noon bell would sound, Simon crept from his quarters in a back and forth, back and forth pace.<br/><br/>"... ugh. What day is it? I think I've got Green later." He honestly had no clue, he thought as he muttered to himself over the rim of his cup. Simon breached the space of the common area once more, pausing to take in a few early afternoon rays from the skylights above and gingerly sip from the steaming ceramic mug clenched in his hands.