9 a.m. Wouldn’t you know it, I get into a row with the bus driver, who stopped so abruptly at one traffic light that the pencil with which I was scratching my eyelid actually drew blood. My irritation grows when a woman who clearly has some sort of tropical fever keeps sneezing into my hair. I have to walk up and stand in front of the yellow line just to get away from her. The driver pretends not to appreciate my tirade against "endemic rudeness," but I can tell he’s secretly glad for the distraction.

9:30 a.m. Things go downhill when I finally make it to the subway. An unruly crowd of commuters jostles and surges down the escalator, which heaves with the strain. The station itself is so packed I have to stand with my toes sticking over the edge of the platform just to be able to read my paper. Occasionally, a hip or an elbow to the small of my back causes me to turn around and tut, sigh, and shake my New York Times aggressively. To hell with the rules, I think, and light up a cigarette.

10:30 a.m. My mood improves somewhat when I get off the train and come across the most adorable pit bull, who growls playfully when I nuzzle my face in his.

11 a.m. Work, as always, is uneventful. I have a minor issue with the soda machine, which not only eats my money but sort of topples forward when I give it an encouraging shake. A little later, running to deliver a pair of scissors to a co-worker, I get my foot tangled up in the cord of the custodian’s vacuum cleaner. Luckily, the edge of a file cabinet breaks my fall. Otherwise, unless you count having to retrieve a paper clip from inside the photocopier, things go pretty smoothly.

1 p.m. For lunch I have a plate of bony cod tartare, which is so tasty I literally inhale it. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have had that sixth glass of pinot noir, seeing as I had planned to pump some iron at the gym afterwards. It’s always a bit embarrassing when you have to scream for someone to come and lift the barbell off your chest. Passing out in the sauna isn’t too cool either.

4 p.m. By the time I have been fully re-hydrated, it’s too late to return to work, so I head out to my favorite dive bar, where I challenge a couple of biker guys to an arm-wrestling match. I don’t particularly care whether I win — I’m just showing off for their girlfriends. Every now and then I sneak into the men’s room to guzzle from the pint of vodka I have stashed inside my underpants. (Now that I think of it, that kick to the balls by the larger of the two bikers could have been much, much worse.)

11:30 p.m. Leaving the bar, I am so wasted I become disoriented, ending up in the middle of a crack deal gone bad. Thanks be, I meet three very nice gentlemen relaxing in a dark alley. Following some spirited badinage, we come to the agreement that I will give them my wallet and they will show me the way out. Alas, I am soon lost again, and it comes as a huge relief when I see a police officer sprinting along the road. I want to ask him for directions, but find I can do little more than cock my finger and thumb and point them at him like a gun. "Down!" the officer yells. "Get down!" He is so amused when I respond by dancing like John Travolta that he comes over and gives me a big hug.

2 a.m. Having shown me where he works, and having shown some interest in my life, too, the officer sends me on my way. I figure the best way home now is along the railroad tracks, even though the odd train will necessitate my diving into the brambles from time to time. But I close my eyes and push onward and make it home with barely a hundred scratches.

3 a.m. Once I get back to my apartment, relief is quickly overwhelmed by dread as I realize that my buddies in the alley must have accidentally taken my keys. With grim resignation, I begin to shin up the drainpipe. My misery is compounded when, having reached my kitchen window, I come face to face with a stranger — an armed stranger at that. There is a woman with him, and her screams send me plummeting three stories down to the street. If I hadn’t fallen headfirst into a dumpster, I could have been hurt.

3:15 a.m. By now the temperature has dipped way below freezing. I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t peed myself earlier when the friendly police officer gave me an affectionate thump in the kidney. As luck would have it, though, I discovered a bottle of very interesting-looking pills back in that dumpster, and a handful of these leave me very relaxed. Indeed, even the person who comes and takes my shoes can’t shake me from my slumber.

6 a.m. I wake up to early-stage frostbite and the realization that I have made a mistake. I’m not even in my own neighborhood. Hah! Still, it isn’t so bad. A short dash across Route 93 and I’m home. This time, I scale the drainpipe without incident and climb into my apartment, where I collapse onto the couch, light a cigarette, and plunge into a deep, breathless sleep. I don’t even hear the key turn in the lock. I am dead to the world.

If he makes it through the day, Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com