Good Morning

A cruel shaft of sun poured through my greasy window and stabbed me directly in the eyelids; this was my signal to wake up. I opened my eyes to a squint and surveyed my surroundings: I had passed out drunk in my disheveled office. That son-of-a-bitch God let me live another accursed day. I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and spat a heavy wad of snot flecked with blood at it. It hung lazily, threatening to splatter on my face at any time. I watched it for a while and welcomed the prospect.
The insides of my mouth felt like they had been painted with baby shit. I grabbed the bottle of burbon in my desk and took a swig for better oral hygiene. Tasting that eye-opener, I grabbed a stubbed stogie from my overflowing ashtray and lit it. The acrid smell of twice-smoked cigarette filled the air and briefly interrupted the wafting stench of whatever was rotting under the piles of paper around me. However, the burning tobacco could not extinguish the smell emanating from my clammy, haggard body. I hadn't showered in eight days, and today I was not going to break the streak.
Taking another slug of burbon, I heaved my creaking body out of the chair and ambled over to the dust-streaked window. Peering out onto the sidewalk below, I observed many well-dressed people rushing about to their various jobs and commitments. "Buncha tools," I muttered aloud, and took another sip of caramel-colored liquid from my bottle. A sharp pain in my mouth told me that the shattered bicuspid I earned three nights ago from a bouncer at the White Starling was about to come out. I wasn't going to help it along any more than to ingest more germicidical liquor. Uzo would probably do the trick. I grabbed my ratty trenchcoat and headed out the door.
On the street, I become well aware of the horror I wreak. People stare, wide-eyed, and turn their noses up at me. Mothers hold their children closer and keep a hand on their purses. I laugh, a gurgling, phlegm-tinted laugh that expels spittle from my lips and tongue in every direction. Tools. Every last one of them. I am ashamed to even share the same planet with these drones. I make my own fate, staring danger and cirrhosis in the face every moment of my life. Keep your safe journeys, wrought with mediocrity. I am the captain of my ship.
Reaching my destination, I took off my trenchcoat and revealed my blood-stained sash and filthy uniform. I was exactly on time, as always. My life is disposable but I take my job seriously. Without it, I would be even more untethered to society than I already am. And if I don't stand in the crosswalk and hold my sign rigidly, how will the children get to their grade school safely? I stood there and waved the children across the street while impassively staring at the driver of a Chrysler LeBaron. Two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon. Then it's off to my fermented, bottled mistress for the rest of the evening. Please, God, let this be my final day.