Pantene

Alarm.

No need for alarm, it's just my alarm.

Snooze.

...

Alarm.

Fuck, I'm up.

I start off every morning hating the world. I don't know, I just always have ever since I could remember waking up. Maybe Cheech is right, perhaps Mexican-Americans really don't like to get up early in the morning...but they have to...so they do it real sloooooow...

The best mornings of my life happen to arrive without prompt. A natural awakening. I yearn for the mornings where I wake up, and am not woken up.

This morning, like most, I am woken.

Into the shower. Pee. (Yes, in the shower.) Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Throw contact lenses into my eyes, brush teeth, put on work attire, out tha door.

Then it's off to the local gas station for breakfast. Now, it's not that I particularly choose this gas station for it's bountiful morning selection of sustenance...its the closest store to my house. And I'm already running late, because if it's like any other day, the chances are I WILL be running late.

Now sometimes this gas station is closed, most times it is open. And sometimes there's a sign on the door that says "Back In Five Minutes," which might as well say "Hold On, I'm Taking A Shit" because when these guys return in five minutes, they always return from within the store...and then proceed to put wieners on the rollers for today's E. Coli dispersal.

Do I want coffee, or an energy drink?
Marlboro Lights, please.

Off to work, smoking and sipping my breakfast, keeping my coffee-clutching arm extended in front of me as a shock-absorber for every bump in the road I'm flying over at 80 miles per hour. Some coffee still manages to find its way onto my floorboard and clothing...same with the cig ash.

Fuck it.

Walk into work with the most god-ugly face on. An Ice Cube scowl, and earbuds in tight. A hood shrouds over my demeanor daring anyone to say "Good Morning" to this miserable bastard. Florescent lighting hellishly replaces sunlight, preventing Vitamin D synthesis in my body from taking place. I feel the onset of cardiovascular disease and cancer brewing within...and rickets form ever so slowly.

I clock in. The countdown begins. Eight hours (if I'm lucky) until I get to depart Hell for the day.

I get called into the Manager's Office over the loudspeaker.

"Daniel, come in."
"Should I sit down?"
"Yeah, you should probably take a seat."

A glimmer of hope arises.

"Okay, there's good news and bad news."
"Give me the good news."
"Well, the good news is you're not in trouble."

Fuck. I was hoping today would be the day. The day everybody who loathes their job awaits. The day where you are let go, free, and cleansed of your "work." The day where life is anew, and opportunity awaits, and doors open where one door closes, and the relief of not having to be awakened by the stupid ass alarm, and I wouldn't wake up miserable, and I wouldn't be miserable. I feverishly anticipate the fire under my ass called Unemployment...and the check that goes by the same name.

"We need you to help out in the Accounting Office today, Pam called in sick."

I have a problem. No matter how much I slack, they keep me around. A young, strong, able-bodied male who speaks clear English and has a degree in the communications field, who also has accounting experience just so happens to be an asset to his company. Who would have thought?

I walk out of the office, put on the Ice Cube scowl and hood, then proceed to count money alllllll day long in a drab, beige room, no bigger than your average prison cell. Windowless, airless, lifeless, soulless...everything is 'less.'

Eight hours pass like eternity. I go home. More 'less' follows. Sleep.

Alarm.

Snooze.

...

Alarm.

Fuck, I'm up.

Into the shower. Pee.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat...