*stares intently into my scrying stone*
I foresee a new direction for Chantals channel. It will begin with a sleepy mukbang straight from her grimy bed, a bowl of unidentifiable glop perched atop her abdominal binder. As she slurs and Shhhhh's her cats stare at her hungrily. She nods out, face down in her bowl, snoring peacefully.
Cut away to 2 months later. Chantal rummages through her "designer" handbag muttering and clattering numerous empty Percocet bottles. She rails against the unfairness of it all...those horrible Doctors refusing to fill her pain medication. She drives thru dark, skeevy looking parks and neighborhoods, looking for her homeless man. Surely he will know where poor Chantal can go to get that sweet, sweet relief from her pain.
5 months later: Chantal's skin hangs loose from her bones. She looks blearily thru bloodshot eyes, wondering why she hasn't seen her cats in weeks and Bibi is long gone. Her house appears to be empty of furnishings and electronics, she drives us to the various pawn shops of the greater Ottawa area. She looks sadly at her now ratty "designer" bag, and decides that red wasn't her color anyway. She pleads with the pawnshop to give her more than 5 dollars for her purse.
Chantal returns to her home, and mindlessly scraps bits of dirt and powder off her kitchen table She loads up her syringe and ties herself off...
Fade to Black.