5:45 a.m.: Shut off alarm. I must value the sacred American tradition of late sleeping.
6:37 a.m.: Awake from a glorious dream of prancing in blue ivy. Think of Blue Ivy Carter. Frantically awake to realize my real glorious dream of seeing Sasha Fierce.
6:51 a.m.: Forced into the back seat of the Mustang by my oppressive male companions.
6:52 a.m.: Play “Love on Top” and shamelessly shout along. All hail Bey.
8:22 a.m.: Feed the gas–guzzling vehicle. Savor the American tradition.
9:14 a.m.: Is there a parking spot in the entirety of this damn state?!
9:14 a.m.: Criticized for calling DC state. Scramble together some excuse about the error being a commentary of American Public School. Called out on my bullshit.
11:03 a.m.: Follow crowd like lemmings. Stop to purchase street hotdogs from a non-English speaking street vendor. Appreciate this great land of opportunity that grants even the most tired and most poor individual the American dream of street vending.
11:15 a.m.: Jumbotron spotting only 1.4 miles from the Capitol Building. Success! Beyonce (and Barack, I suppose) here I come!
11:23 a.m.: Why does this screen look like a glitchy game of tetris? Is that noise shitty dubstep or an inaugural address?
11:24 a.m.: Seriously though.
11:35 a.m.: “M–m–y fel ‘Meri–i–i–kins” Clearly an Obama-Shrillex combo audio.
11:42 a.m.: Ignore Obama. Daydream about Beyonce.
11:43 a.m.: Silently freak out when I realize I might not actually hear Beyonce.
11:45 a.m.: Try to imagine a Beyonce dubstep remix. Think it might actually be kind of cool.
11:57 a.m.: It’s not. Stand there devastated when these dysfunctional speakers butcher her glorious soprano. Consider throwing myself off the Washington Monument.
1:43 p.m.: Escape crowd. Enter McDonalds. Listen to “Single Ladies.” Celebrate the real American glories, like Big Macs and Chinese made iPods.