You wake up the next morning, and get ready for school.

You wake up to the harsh buzzing of your alarm clock. You loathe school mornings. They combine two of the things you abhor the most: school, and mornings. You smack the clock, and sit up in bed.

You were able to fall back asleep relatively quickly after your sudden remembrance of your mom's uncharacteristic generosity last morning. After all, it was just a tiny thing, no doubt another coincidence unrelated to the Manipulator. Two slightly odd events over the course of twenty-four hours isn't exactly a preponderance of evidence of psychic manipulation. The silly armband and its note just got your imagination racing, that's all.

You grab a set of clothes to change into, and head downstairs to use the shower. You always get up a bit early, because Laura is a fan of long showers, and if you dawdle you end up both running late and **** to take a lukewarm shower thanks to her using all the hot water. Once you get into the bathroom, you lock the door and begin disrobing. You take your pajama shirt off, and smile at the Manipulator on your left arm.

Wait... the Manipulator on your left arm?

That's when you realize that you never took the thing off last night. You just went to bed, wearing it, without a second thought. It wasn't uncomfortable or anything -- obviously, since you didn't even realize it was still there until just now.

You wonder if you should take it off for the shower. Probably, you think. And you just stand there.

Yep, I should really take it off, you think. Nothing.

Electronics and water usually don't mix. You still stand there.

...

Well, stainless steel is typically waterproof, right? I'm sure it'll be fine.

You take the rest of your clothes off, and start the shower running to heat up. While it does, you look at yourself in the mirror.

Ugh, you think. Pathetic. You can see your ribcage beneath your pallid chest -- quite a feat, considering all the junk food you eat. Your arms are thin and noodly, your legs ungainly and awkward, your neck too long. {if female == true}Your breasts are small, barely nubs protruding from your chest — not exactly the sort of thing most people are attracted to. You turn and look down; well, at least I have a semi-cute butt, you think. Probably from sitting on it and browsing the web all day. Between your legs, some fine black hair grows in a small patch on and around your labia.{else}You look down between your legs; some fine black hair grows in a small patch above your penis. You honestly have no idea if it is small, average-sized, or large -- you have nothing to compare it to, no point of reference. Sure, there's plenty of porn on the Internet, but you stick to pictures of women, since that's what you're interested in, and frankly they take a little while to download, so you have to pick and choose.{endif}

It's not long before the mirror fogs up from the shower, so you step in and perform your morning ablutions. You smile at that word. "Ablutions." It's a good word. You're a creature of habit, and you run through it all the same way as you always do: grab the loofah, three squirts of shower gel, soap up arms and chest, then left leg, right leg, and bits in-between. After a thorough rinse, you step out of the shower, and proceed through your normal paces: dry off, comb hair, brush teeth, {if female == false}shave beard, {endif}put on deodorant, and get dressed in your usual winter outfit: {if female == true}plain white panties{else}boxer shorts{endif}, jeans, a white T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. You forego any kind of {if female == true}makeup or perfume{else}cologne or hair gel{endif}; your goal is always to draw as little attention to yourself as possible, so in general, the blander, the better. {if female == true}(You forego a bra too; they're uncomfortable as hell, and between your T-shirt and sweatshirt, you're covered just fine for your tastes.){endif}

You’ve gotten very good at performing this little routine very quickly each morning, and yet you’re never finished before, without fail, there’s a knocking on the bathroom door. This morning is no exception.

Knock knock knock. “Sam, hurry up!” Laura calls, from the other side of the door. “I gotta get in there!”

You roll your eyes. “Almost done,” you reply, as you finish pulling your sweatshirt over your head. Before you open the door, you glance in the mirror one last time.

“Mediocrity incarnate,” you say with a sad smile.

You open the door, and Laura runs past you, scoots you out, and shuts it behind you.

Your mom has already left for work, so you throw your socks, shoes, and coat on, and head out the door. You like leaving early; that way there’s less of a chance that you run into anyone along the way.