Ally Spades had few things in abundance, aside from the obvious.
The “horizontally challenged” medical technician of Buttercombe Academy was a lot of things, just none of them quite good. She was grouchy most of the time, with a temper that fared worse than her patience. Her manners weren’t exactly polished, she was often loud and sometimes came across as somewhat crass to the hoity-toity girls she tended to at Buttercombe Academy. Her bedside manner, even, was lacking. She wasn’t very nice, not to most people anyway, and most people just wouldn’t consider her a very good nurse. But to be the only nurse on staff in an academy filled to the brim with girls ranging anywhere from fifteen to twenty, most would agree that Ally was doing just fine.
Of the things she did have in abundance, most of them were not very desirable. Her insatiable thirst for alcohol was quite remarkable, going out for a drink with the girls (read: her only friend, Rachel Reynolds) at least once a week. As such, her tolerance for all things intoxicating was also astonishingly high, it took quite a lot to get this girl liquored up these days. She thought very highly of herself, and was considered more than a bit egotistical by most of those who got to know her. Not to say that she was a terribly bad as a person, merely that she was a woman with a healthy amount of gumption and a “healthy” amount of ego to throw around.
And as this short-tempered, egotistical, “social drinker” fought the bright Autumn sun, threatening to burn right through her eyelids, she could only groan in what could only be described as “dissatisfaction” once she realized the harsh truth that the morning sun rang in: it was one day closer to another semester.
“Ughuuhhhghh…”
With the rousing battle cry she greeted every morning with, Ally Spades fought herself beneath the cozy covers of her bed. Of which, she half-recalled, she did not remember actually falling asleep in. It wouldn’t have been the first time this happened, what with her tendency of getting drunk off her ass and blacking out SLEEPWALKING and all.
She kicked the covers off of herself, not-so-quietly reviling in her delicate flesh being exposed to the slight Autumn draft that had snuck into her cabin. Her movements made her mad mass quiver, her thickness upset by her sudden activity. At some point during the night, her tank top had ridden up even further over her belly, rolling together to completely unsheathe the mighty Iron Stomach left usually concealed. It poured out onto the bed like browned ginger custard, owing to her habit of sleeping sideways. One thick arm lay across it as the other rest across her tubby tits, attempting to blind her eyes to that pestering sun… to no avail.
Moaning and whining some, Ally decided that she wasn’t going to sleep off last night. No… not with all the booze (consisting of no less than six long-necks, three jello shots, and lots and LOTS of tequila) pounding in her head and all the food (mostly hotwings, lots and LOTS of hotwings, oh and nachos) still fresh in the back of her throat. It was mornings like this that Ally WISHED she could sleep in some, but noooo, not if she wanted to have a decent breakfast.
‘Oh no!’, you’re probably thinking, ‘But she’s already eaten way too much as it is, and she’s definitely in no mood to eat much of anything with a killer hangover like that!’
Well don’t worry, that’s why Ally Spades is something of a special lady. Sure she eats (a lot) and she drinks (even more), but before Buttercombe Academy—back in her college days—Ms. Ally Spades was something of a wild child. She’d done worse, if you could believe that. The only difference is that, after some few years of paying for her own drunken meals at the bar near the Academy, Ally had learned not to throw away perfectly good money on food she was just gonna throw up anyway. Like any reasonable person… she just learned to stop throwing up.
Ally cursed as she rolled herself onto the hardwood floor, her pudgy pink piggies growing cold from the damn-near frigid wood. She stood up, slowly, and stretched lazily in her own special routine. She held out her doughy arms and stood on her tippy-toes, barely standing at the height of the average woman, as her poor underused muscles felt the twinge of that first bout of activity. As she thrust forward, her tank rode even higher up, straining to contain her fleshy milk-sacks beneath the stained white material. In pulling it down she idly scratched her tummy, which gurgled in a mix of appreciation and hunger.
“Alright, I’m going I’m going…” Ally grumbled as she rubbed the flabby forefront of her massive middle, an attempt at soothing the savage beast beneath her supple flesh, “Can’t even have a hangover ‘round here…”
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