Mornings in suburban Chicago were depressing. As I sat in my car, in stalled traffic, I looked around me. In front of me was a hung-over professional, about my age, in an Italian suit driving a decrepit car decorated with University rear-window stickers. To my right was a thirty-something-year-old woman putting on make-up, while the commuter behind her became impatient. To my left was a handsome man in sunglasses in a Porsche talking away on his cell phone. In my rear-view mirror was a young suburb girl in an econo-mobile, sporting big hairspray hair, probably worried she would be fired from her office-temp position for being late again. In the middle of it all was me, a confused twenty-something who not only was also going to be late, but who didn't give a shit.