Don't You Hate Those Mornings When..

You wake up, stumble out of bed, look at yourself in the mirror and discover you've become a cliché?

Me, the unshaven, messy-haired, t-shirt and jeans-wearing, running shoe-clad, artsy-fartsy, free-loving, coffee-drinking, Camus-quoting, little-read wannabe novelist who constantly bemoans the evils of the world, and makes Henry Miller into some kind of Christ figure.

Fuggin' Hell.