(If you can't tell that the following piece is in tribute to Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerny, you probably would have more fun reading the obituaries.)
You open your eyes on a world shooting piercing rays of angry light through the gray. You turn over and fall off the bed into a damp pool of unidentifiable detritus from last night's romp. You stagger upright and your knee goes from twinge to jolt in a second flat.
You stare into the bathroom mirror and see a perfect zit on your nose, too small to squeeze but too big to ignore. You shave like a John Deere contraption hacking through the underbrush and when the simian quality is cleared, a pair of scowling jowls are revealed.
You kick the dog on the way to the kitchen and all you hear behind you is a whimper and then a wheeze. You press a mess of buttons on the percolator for some exotic Italian coffee but all you get is some Spanish plain - after the rain fell mainly on it and turned it into mud. You crack an egg for scrambling but it explodes out of the shell onto the counter and then slithers - phloop! - onto the floor.
You sit down at the blasted table to read the bloody morning paper. You're tired of your own problems and very receptive to learning the misery of others. You turn to the society page and you see that Jay McInerney has just begun his third marriage - to heiress Ann Hearst.
You take your Ray-Ban sunglasses and stomp up and down on them until no sliver exceeds the size of a mustard seed. You grab some fresh-baked bread and squeeze it into Silly Putty, then fling projectiles at the door of the microwave. Life goes on.