The Story of Mr. Everyone

He was sick of the monotinous way the days started.  Wake up, rub the sleep out of your eyes, plant your feet firmly on the floor, then the rest of the day would fall into place.  He hated it.  His dull, boring job always awaited him.  The pudge around his navel always grew, every single day another pinch of fat would decide to land its feelers all over him and stay there.  Every day his hair inched out of his skull; until chance would give him time to cut it.  He was sick of boring.  He was sick of monotiny.  He was sick of alone.  He was done.  Alone, and done.