The days slip through my fingers without sensation

With hours of paid programming in the forefront of my mind.

Illusions seem more real: comedies, sitcoms, midevening drama on a screen:

Vibrant realities joking in technicolor.

I want to move in to the big house with plastic food and a tall picture perfect husband to fuck

when I come home from my six-digit salary job.

My life will have a coherent plot,

And every night a happy ending.