America groggily opened his cealean eyes. Pushing away the thick covers, America sat up, rubbing his eyes by habit. He stood, slipping on his fuzzy red slippers and trudged over to a 40-year-old mirror that sat on top of a modern dresser. With his blurred vision, the blonde lazily dragged his hand across the dresser top and gave a smirk of triumph when he felt the brim of Texas.
Slipping on his glasses, America admired his messy reflection. His blonde hair was surprising neat for just waking up, except for a few strands here and there that protruded upwards. Behind his glasses, his eyes twinkled and snapped shut as he yawned. The nation was shirtless and only wore Superman shorts with useless pockets that could only hold a small cell phone.
America grabbed his overused brush and sloppily pulled it though his hair, one stubborn strand refusing to stay down. Grunting, America dropped the brush on the floor and opened a dresser drawer to retrieve a t-shirt. After struggling on a large shirt, America left his poster-decorated bedroom, sauntered down the carpeted hallway, and made his way down the wooden stairs. Coming to the kitchen, America opened a birch cabinet and wrapped his fingers around the only coffee mug he owned.
After preparing instant coffee, America sipped his drink with little interest, craving a cheeseburger and some cola. Stirring the last of the coffee nonchalantly, the nation tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for something- anything to happen. He was just too bored, and heroes weren't supposed to be.
