The morning light filters through the stained-glass window perched above my half-empty bed, splintering into millions of shiny facets as it bursts forth from the glass to the floor. Multi-colored dust dances about the room, a veil of dead skin set to music only the clouds can hear.

I'm not ready for morning. I haven't even been to sleep. It's too late now to continue my self-imposed torture of tossing, and turning, and tossing, and turning, and tossing some more. Sunlight means the world awaits my arrival. So much is expected of me: smiles, attentive eyes and ears, small talk that I suspect is turning my brain into tiramissou—or at least giving me a tumor--, thoughts, ideas, ponderances, musings—all of which seem to be on the other side of the boundary wall that encompasses 'the real of possibility'.

Life, as it has become, is more than intolerable—it's unbearable. Everyday I get out of bed, get dressed, brush my teeth, do a bunch of shit, deal with people who expect and demand every fiber of my being to bend to their omnipotent will, all with a contempt-laced smile. Then, after work is done, I have to fight my way home through stand-still traffic and migraine-inducing radio assaults, drag myself into my house, drink myself into total and euphoric oblivion, pass out in my bed-or as near to it as I can get, and wake up to do it all again.

Yes, morning-especially combined with a modicum of self-loathing and overwhelming anxious exhaustion-is not an encouraging or refreshing start to my day. It takes all my strength to drag myself from my bedroom tomb to stalk about my house like a zombie who can't seem to find any brains.

Today, I must start with a shower. Combined with the hangover that may or may not already be afflicting me, and the layers of sweat that are covering me from the long night of civil war between exhaustion and my constantly babbling mind, the only possible relief has to be nestled in the soothing jet-powered rivulets of water running down from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

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The water is not enough. I barely have the wherewithall to turn the faucet handles, let alone put the effort into feeling comforted and purified by the frigid water my hot-water heater has decided is my due. Sopping wet, and most certainly on the outer fringes of acute hypothermia, my feet are carrying me on my way to the next task set before me. Getting ready for work.

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Work, work, work. Someone please tell me how it's fair that I get yelled at, spit on, yelled at some more, burned by stoves and deep fryers, am forced to listen to crying babies, and children that cannot be contained by their parents-and probably not even by pepper spray-and still not make enough money to have more than a one-bedroom studio apartment, a Ford Pinto, and a TV that only picks up two stations that include smiling religious idiots, and mexican girls wearing bikini-tops and granny panties jumping on trampolines trying to sell me books about tacos that can read?!

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After dressing for work, which involves putting on the uniform from Hell-think Andrew Lloyd Webers' Cats, but even more sweet and repulsive-I make my way over to the kitchen. I am in no mood to clean the staggering stack of dishes that perpetually inhabit my sink, and opt instead for a handful of dry cereal. I think even this may be too much for me. The amount of effort it takes to chew the stale, vile, clump of bricks is only masked by the could-in-the-future-be-an-Olympic-event struggle it is to force the mouthful down my throat. Still,it's more appealing than the food I prepare and serve at my oh-so-hostile-home-away-from-home, McGigaKitty's.

McGigaKitty's-whose name is inspired by the workers who stuff themselves into cat suits and dance amidst the flames of the kitchen-is the quintessential be-all-end-all-economy-killing-obesity-inspiring-soul-slaughtering fast-food restaurant to ever be conceived. Designed to destroy the phenomenon known to every person on the globe as McDonald's, McGigaKitty's unleashed its sickening brand of cutesy smiles and costumes onto the unsuspecting populace a few years back. The first restaurant opened in July of 2007 in Okinawa, Japan. I've heard rumors that the company has plans to expand farther than any company has ever dared in history, by creating a tourist-trap restaurant in Antarctica. How much more nauseatingly greedy can capitalism possibly make us?

It is now 8:35 am. I am supposed to be at work at 8:30 am. I am just now leaving my apartment. I'm not even at my car yet. I am trying to hurry, but my car is three-and-a-half blocks away. I wish I had a garage. A bum asks me for some spare change. I tell him that he probably has more change in his little plastic cup then I have in my bank account. He starts to protest-something about me being selfish and lacking basic human decency and compassion. I wish I had his job. I see my car. I see my fate. I see my downfall…