As Bob Barker says, “Let’s make a deal.”

Another day, another dollar. Another day of waking up and walking aimlessly into the shower, turning the faucet to the same dial, brushing your teeth. Sliding into a pair of pants as if one was a puppet held up by strings.

We get into the car and we sit in traffic. We get to work, we have some coffee.
We talk about the weekend. And, everyone says, “Fuck, I hate Mondays.” Me, well I don’t mind them.

The computer goes on, the web browser goes on, emails sent and read. Next thing you know, it’s lunch time. By the time you realize, the day has slipped away and you’re stuck in traffic glaring at the red lights in front of you, commuting the 23.5 miles, listening to the radio or the gentle hum of your car. Looking left and right at the various people, hoping to get a glimpse of something you like.

Me, I play the drums in the car, keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. The guy next to me has his hands down his pants and the girl in front of me is sipping her coffee and singing some song I’m indifferent about.

You look at the clock, and wonder where the day went.
You look at the clock and realize that you haven’t accomplished anything that you wanted. You take your keys and step out of the car. Enter. Sit down. Pour yourself some scotch.

As Bob Barker says, “Let’s make a deal.”

Or maybe it was the devil.