You wake up and its Monday morning. You don't have a routine anymore; your routine has you. Your floor pushes you up twenty times, it cradles you through thirty sit-ups. Then the kitchen has its turn. Your cereal eats you for breakfast; your coffee drinks you down. Your car drives you to work at the usual time.

At about 8:30 while you're sitting in your five-by-five cubicle, the coffee wakes you up, and the computer initializes you with your preprogrammed start-up sequence. The thirteen-inch SVGA monitor sees its words reflected in your eyes, between the intermittent flapping of your otherwise useless eyelids.

Your chair sits you down as it wheels you around your five-by-five cubicle, from one document which grabs your hand, willing itself to be moved across the cubicle, to another.

Your computer initializes another of your preprogrammed subroutines, and the halls of your "hive-complex" office building escort you and the other drones to the feeding area. Your lunch utilizes your otherwise useless appendages to deliver itself to your stomach where it will process itself and convert itself into more excess fat. Your stale ham sandwich, with a side of potato chips eat you, and your half pint carton of milk drinks you down for good measure.

The clock on the wall instructs you to return to your five-by-five cubicle before you're late. You obey it as always. The wall-clock's word is law.

Your chair returns you to the sitting position and leads you back to the computer so that it can stare at you for a few more hours until the time comes for your car to drive you back to the pre-fabricated structure that allows you to dwell within.

The welcome mat wipes your feet, then the doorknob turns your hand and the door opens to let you inside. The answering machine initiates your pre-programmed subroutine and its play button presses your right index finger. The answering machine's word is law also, under the penalty of death, the death of isolation from the outside world that owns you.

The couch sits you down in front of the television set. The blank screen stares into your eyes until the remote grabs your hand and initializes a set of muscle and tendon movements to allow an its parent appliance to be activated.

The football game watches itself reflected in your eyes for five point eight seven seconds, then the hockey game watches itself reflected in your eyes for six point three two seconds, then a cheesy rip-off of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" watches itself reflected in your eyes for two point five eight seconds, finally a test pattern watches itself reflected in your eyes for one hour thirty-two minutes and forty-one point zero nine seconds.

The best selling novel on your nearby coffee table picks up your hand and reads you until the sun finishes setting on the day to which you belonged.

Your worn-out slippers, which bought you nearly a year ago, walk you back to the kitchen. The cabinets pull on your arms to open themselves, and the private stash of junk food which purchased you at the county-market one week ago, grabs your left hand. This sweet tasting substance delivers itself to your otherwise useless mouth, chews you, swallows, you and digests you. A glass of water drinks you then uses you to rinse it out to rid itself of your foul taste.

Your clothes undress you for the night's slumber. The alarm clock, which has owned you since grade school, sets you to awake in time for your car to drive you to work in the morning. The bed to which you belong lifts you onto a designer mattress guaranteed to provide the sleeper with an extra sense of comfort, which bought you on sale about two months ago.

You no longer live your life; your life lives you. You spend all your time to build a life, which defines you as a person, until your life begins to spend your time defining you.

You wake up and you're dead.