I slide off the sheets into my fuzzy slippers and sluff over to the bathroom for some refreshing splashes of overchlorinated water. While I am in the shower, I do a lot of thinking: deep, lingering thoughts. Actually, I am usually thinking about what I am gonna wear, what is my hair gonna do, and also how I am going to react to the asshole de jour who treats me like a piece of marinated meat. You see, I am a young woman who contributes to the oiling of the corporate machine. I work in Research Triangle Park, and I need to vent. I normally wake up feeling self-assured, motivated, and ready to conquer the universe. Unfortunately, I run into a strong, hard wall. This wall is usually built in the shape of a rather large (not to be a compliment) penis.

It usually begins either in my parking lot or the gas station. The typical day for me is to spin into the nearest Zip ‘n Sip and fill up the tank and grab some type of sugar-induced bakery object. What really enrages me is that I cannot even walk into the store to pay for my overpriced rocket fuel without getting whistled at or gawked at, sometimes the jerks even try to talk to me. Normally I am a very civil, somewhat friendly person. But when someone is speaking to me I expect him to look at my face. Unfortunately, the men whom I am describing are not interested in my answers, because I know my words do not spew from my tits. It is obvious that my intriguing conversation about the Twinkies I am holding is not holding his attention. Or is it he just wants to "fill me up" in his own way at the gas station. Hence, the day begins. . . .