I was sitting in my vinyl swivel chair. The chair had no armrests. It had come with the office, along with the broken particle board desk, missing one corner and warped as hell. Someday I would find myself a swivel chair with armrests. And a desk that didn't rock every time I leaned an elbow on it. Someday. To my left, sitting on a stainless steel counter next to a stainless steel sink, the compact coffee maker made surprisingly human-like gurgling noises, although I couldn't remember the last time I heard a human gurgle. On my desk was a greasy white Winchell's bag, bulging nicely with its contents. The day was young and full of hope. That is, for anyone other than me. For me, it was just another day filled with regret, pain, and eternal guilt. The donuts helped with some of that. And when the coffee was done, I stood up and went over to the coffee maker and filled a metal thermos, then returned to my armless vinyl swivel chair. I sipped the brew and watched the steam march up to the ceiling, voicing my pleasure with a resounding, "Ahh." The wind slapped rain against the window, beating a pleasant staccato. I swiveled in my chair, maximizing its full potential, and watched the rain drool down the massive pane, beyond which a low vault of swollen purple clouds meant business. Memories of my son playing with plastic boats