Facing the Freshmen

And so the sun shows its horrible mug on another less-than-exciting day. Having to wake up at 6:00 A.M. is really starting to harsh my mellow. After waiting for twenty minutes for my trusty Astro-van to start up, I creep on down the street towards work. When I finally reach the bleak, meaningless cube that is my crusty workplace, I am faced with the mountain range of papers that never grow any shorter. I wish I could say that this part wreaked the most havoc. After what seems to be light-years in this humid, unappealing palace, I am finally reawakened by a bell that sounds like the first three notes of "Death March". The tacky, motivational poster-plastered floodgates swing open to release the roaring river of five-foot freaks that trickles down into my room. I am then supposed to endure an excruciating 90 minutes helping to broaden their intellectual horizons.
So help me.
My eyes sweep across each desk to ensure that each moss-sucking minion is in attendance. I see the painfully familiar faces of dried spit and toothpaste, remnants of egg lodged in the brackets of their braces, half-inch thick goggles, and the undeniable, relentless stench of youth. Their mouths hang open to catch any falling knowledge (or, in this case, ceiling insulation) to feed their shriveled brains.
This is my dirty job.