Really Feeling the Groundhog-ness

The whine of an electric (alarm c)lock.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Doors being pushed open like my joints popping from stiffness.
Squeeeeeeeal... neighbor's door needs maintenance to actually fix it, like the cart in the hallway with bad bearings.
"Trays, trays, trays!" a chorus of parrots with beards, tumblers, and sporks chant, the rallying cry of a five a.m. feeding.
It's breakfast time.
What day of the week is it again?

Shuffling on burning thumbtacks, ah wait, those are my feet again. Let's look at the tray... double oatmeal, packet of creamy peanut butter from our friends at Sunshine Peanut Company in Temple Terrace, a packet of caffeinated coffee, and a generic saccharin sweetener; apple on the side. Must be the Wednesday vegan tray.

For some value of "fed", I am that. Time for count again; In the six o'clock weekday count, I get to make my bunk, stow all nonessential items, and stall as long as I can on putting on boots for class until the last actionable moment: my feet physically hurt from a lack of medical attention a podiatric practitioner would give. (What's podiatry, precious?)

The days carry on the same way each day, unless someone gets into a fight, goes to prison jail, gets shipped, goes home, or there's a death on the compound. It reeks of a samey-ness that shows me a peek under the cards of people who beg to get into programs, but then don't want to come: some get desperate for something to mix in to change their day's flavor, but the flavor is SO STRONG that they can't take it!
Here, vocational programs are "all day", so you go in the morning after breakfast count, and after midday count -- that can be six hours of programming. If you're an office worker, you're likely pretty used to 8, 9, 10 hour shifts, but have some sympathy for these people, many who have not worked beyond... hm, can we call them unlicensed gig economy pharmaceutical technicians or property reallocators, freelance? They're trying to adjust to a very weird 7-to-3 in a caustic environment.

Nevertheless, days roll by like thunder, each one the same same same.
Oh, gross... What's that smell?
It's the Thursday non-Vegan breakfast tray of meat? gravy, permeating the
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. squeeeeeeeeeal. Trays, trays, trays!
dormitory's already pervasive funk of poor hygiene and flatulence. Ah, a breakfast also worth missing if you're assigned a vegan meal pattern: grits and peanut butter from our friends at Sunshine Peanut Company in Temple Terrace. Squeeze PB to mouth, dispose of grits. Continue.
Count, check.
Class, check.
Lunch, check.
Count, check.
Class, check.
Medicine, check.
Count, check.
Medicines, check check.
Dinner, check.
Count, check.
Nap, maybe check.
Stand outside your door for a Master Roster Count, ch-- wrinkle, this is new. I don't like this wrinkle. This is supposed to be "Sleep, check." Secured counts imply that I'm to be secured behind a door before officers enter to count, not have liberty to wander for 30 minutes while they figure out that the guy in wing 2 knows how best to pronounce his own last name. Not his failure that the officer can't handle the 'cz' in his name...

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. squeeeeeeeeeal. Trays, trays, trays!
No smell... but my breakfast repeats: double grits, single peanut butter. Must be Friday. Hello again, Sianat Nutrient Paste Sunshine Peanut Paste Butter; we meet once more in this place. Sigh.

Groundhog Treadmill, I feel your mundaneness. It is mind-numbing.
I am turning gray all over from this.

This is rehabilitation?