He wakes up. He finds some vodka in a glass by his bed which has some cranberry juice in it. There is no time for breakfast so he drinks this and the bitterness wakes him up. He has no time for a shower. He wears the same clothes from the day before only just making the effort to find a new pair of underpants. He puts the underpants on backwards and the takes them off and puts them off the correct way. Then he stares at the new art of George W. Bush. It is aesthetically very basic yet utterly compelling because of the identity of the artist. The average art works of a teenager become something more profound and powerful because the hand that painted them contains the fingers that wavered over the red button for eight years. He wonders if Paul Bremer is jealous that he is not getting as much attention for his art his flat landscapes and barns and bridges of madison county. He wonders why he doesn’t wear more dresses. Dresses are pretty and it would be nice to wear one but he thinks that his hairiness would probably fight against whatever pretty dress he chose. Then he eats a donut and then he has a coffee and he buys some groceries and he does his laundry and he ponders whether he should paint his nails and he paints his nails in lots of pretty rainbow colors and they look pretty but they go with none of his outfits so he takes nail polish remover and gently dabs a cotton ball with nail polish remover and he removes the nail polish and he prepares himself for whatever the day may bring tomorrow another trip to the mva a driving license the wind the sun the rain the cherry blossoms whatever the world wishes to drench him in he is ready. He goes to sleep.