The door opens and a haggard figure drags his tired self in. He pushes play on the black five disc cd player and slumps down into an old white metal chair. His work shirt flies to the bathroom, hits the side of the shower, and rests on top of the ***** laundry pile.
There is a slightly sad song playing in the background now. Tears slowly fall, retreating in to the wrinkles of his exhausted face. “Stupid song,” cries the young man. His face wears more age then his life should have allowed. Hairs retreat awkwardly across his forehead, leaving stragglers behind in weird places.
            He imagines those lone brown hairs turning around and sighing, “Guys, oh guys where’d you go?” A small chuckle tries to surface but is rejected its freedom as the sad song continues. “Come on, come on just turn off the stupid song.” He says with a painful grin
            He puts on a clean shirt, well an only been worn once or twice kind of clean. Lyrics of love and loss play, then end, and he hits repeat. “Why did I do that?” he thinks. More tears make their presence known, crossing the neckline, and soaking his thin blue super hero shirt. “What the hell is wrong me?” The stranger stares into the cracked mirror.
            The crack seams to split and separate his face, leaving part of it just a little out of sync with the other part. He imagines attempting to shave his hair with this screwy homemade funhouse mirror. Patches of brown hair would be left in random spots, like little bushes sprouting up on a barren beige landscape. Then he imagines strange black tumbleweeds rolling through his head. Another chuckle tries to escape his lips, but is stifled by the sobs.
            “Oh this is ridiculous. I’m not even sad. At least I don’t think that I am sad. Maybe I am cause I am crying. I know I am ******* stressed,” he reflects.
            The song ends and he plays the next sappy sad song. His black work pants take the same journey as his work shirt. Then he puts on a pair of ripped shorts, the hole in the crotch threatening to expose his junk.
Ten minutes have past. While he has been crying laughter seems to want to take over. “Maybe I should see a doctor?” he muses. “Between the crying the urge to laugh, and the talking to myself in the mirror, I must be losing it.”
            The laughter finally breaks through.  A few minute pass. He slips his weary frame onto the small mattress, burying himself so tightly in the blanket that he could not move. Then he goes to sleep. The dreams come and go with a little more tears and some laughter.
            Morning burns his sour face, waking him to the real world once more. His muscles crack as he sits up and tries to stretch out. “I am too young to make those noises.” He considers. After a good long, well annoyingly long ****, he smiles at his reflection in the mirror.
            There are no more tears. Features have been restored to their proper age appearance, and the stress that had been eating him up is gone. He gazes at the clock, surprised to find it blinking twelve. Then checks his watch. “Wow it is almost one pm; good thing it is my day off.” He smiles. “ I really need to stop talking to myself.”