You wake up and hit snooze. You wake up and hit snooze. You wake up and personally thank god you're a man by touching:

And your day begins, or does it end because this orgasm was your 5 seconds of happiness. Spend the better years of your life unhappy, until you are retired.

Then you wake up and garden. Then you wake up and trim. Then you wake up and temporarily leave the cabin-feverish rigor mortis your wife clones from day to day. There you are in your split farmer John fittings. One part clean and one part dirty, but the split isn't even, it favors the dirty. And here lies your exorcised happiness. The dead tree of hair, the selective hearing, and the coke bottle glasses you forget where you have placed every time you blink.

You wake up in the world. You wake up and grow old. You wake up and thank god for your guaranteed moment of pride and joy.

In the morning I look into the mirror. No I'm not vain, work demands I look a certain way. So as I shave I no longer notice the cuts and divots I leave, I just stare into the void and bleed.

The gel and brush quickly complete their duty - I am a guy after all, and in less than 20 minutes I am done. Could you move faster on sub 5 hours of sleep every day?

That is the time I spend 'looking' at my reflection, and yet, I no longer see the athlete, the scholar, or the inventor I thought I'd be. I no longer vision what life will be like in the future, I've seen it in others and I know the same will happen to me. All I see is 'Oops I missed a spot'.

I can only imagine that it would be more humane to begin life blind. That way when you 'look' into the mirror, you never have to see the blank disappointment your life has become.

Maybe its the voices talking to me. Maybe I'm really having a hard time listening to them because I blasted my ears out this weekend at an overrated club with snobby women who don't look like they are worth half of what they wear on their flabby asses.

Maybe a treadmill is too good for them, and they deserve every bit of lardiness and cottage cheese and vericose veins that forces them to cover that masquerade of body blemishes.

Maybe a razor is too good for them so they would have to grow out their body hair and have it waxed every month or so and endure the pain it takes to be beautiful, because it will only last for a week in which they will really get to pick up any men. And god forbid I would be noticed in this time period because you are more than an image in the looking glass.

Maybe for once when they look at me they could put the effort into a nice casual smile that would scream "I'm not your typical Pittsburgh whiney Les Miserables bitch".

Maybe I will be polite and give them the room they need or the mistaken solitude they ask for, despite their shirts that proudly display their overstrained mountains of tittyfucking fun. I am excluding all women with a smaller chest than me at this point. I've played with great big boobies and I liked it.

Onwards and upwards.