Morning Fantasy

This morning I woke up before the alarm went off. Half-asleep I wondered, not very optimistically, if it was Saturday. No, it didn't have that Saturday morning feeling, and it didn't feel as though I had served my full weekly term, so I knew it must be Friday. 'Oh well', I thought, 'if it has to be a weekday, Friday is the best one!' I sprang out of bed, lost my balance, and went straight into the wall. With an egg rising fast on my head, I bounced like a pinball into the bathroom.
I showered without incident and made sure the skin was dry before I stepped into my uniform: black shoes, guacamole pants, black t-shirt. Then, standing in the middle of my room looking at the green clock numbers and listening to the man talking about a Muslim Barbie doll, I understood it was time to get going. I pushed my bike out the door, making another big black smear on it with the rear tyre. Sometimes I wonder what people think when they walk past my door. It looks like stormtroopers with sticky rubber boots tried to kick it in. I like it, maybe because it makes me feel like I'm in 1984. Why do I have this obsession with living in a robot world where there is a TV or radio that is constantly on, and there is only one channel or frequency, and you are not allowed to ever turn off, can only turn it down a little? In my fantasy I yank it off the wall and smash it into pieces, but then the robots come after me in force, armoured, with their high-powered weapons and electric stun sticks and they jab them into my ribs and armpits when I say: 'FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME.'
Then I am taken away to an ugly bare room and subjected to torture - psychological and physical.
I don't last long.