You wake up as stiff as a board with a weird obstruction in your face; rather, coming out of it.
You try to get up out from under your sheets but can't seem to get a hold of them!
You opt instead to roll off the side of the bed landing you in a pile of feathers, and sheets. You free yourself and manage to get up. Staring down you remember something:
*Your pillows don't have feathers in them; they're modern memory foam ones*
Then you see your feet...
The horrified squawking sound you produce is so loud all birds (that can fly) in a ten-metre radius of your house flee desperately from their perches and a nearby cat stalking across a your garden fence leaps two feet into the air, lands on the wet morning grass and sprints to a nearby bush. Thank god you moved out of your parents' place last year.
You, who intended to have screamed a few seconds ago, stand looking down at your body. You had shrunk by about two feet and your feet and small and webbed. Moving up, your legs are practically invisable from where your side-facing eyes are and don't seem to be purticularly long anyway. Your body upwards from there is torpedo shaped. You hold what your arms and hands were last night up to the side of your head to see them.
They were flippers. No digits, no opposable thumbs, about half the length (relatively) than they were when you drifted off.
This is a purticular concern currently because your door is fully closed and the handle, circular, is up to your chest. Your heart starts beating faster (which it wad doing anyway because of the penguin problem).
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