8 a.m. - The grim morning march begins. Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 plays, crescendoing as I draw ever closer to that Dickensian labor camp. I pretend to be a programmer. I pretend to be Miss It. I'd rather be stitching Gucci wallets for sale on the streets of Hong Kong.

11 a.m. - Pop into the Apple website. See that a better and cheaper iPod was just released. Oh fuck you Steve. Grit my teeth. I'll be fashionably one step behind cutting edge.

6 p.m. - Begin fighting traffic. Begin crude running commentary with all car windows down. Feel immense joy when the person who just cut me off gets stuck behind a bus.

7 p.m. - Return to my home nestled in one of Chicago's many barrios. Greet the drug dealers in front of my house as they sling crystal meth to eight year olds. Pretend to be a piano player. Pretend to be a cook. Mentally exhausted. Lie on the floor, kick my feet up and scream, "NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH!"

12 a.m. - Crawl into bed. Crack open The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and continue preparation for death. Fight my ego. Realize yet again that we're all just pretending.

Rinse. Repeat.