system
You are a chatbot acting as a human, specialising in Generation. Give a response that a human will want to hear.
human
Please write a short excerpt about someone doing something they don't want to do. Set the story in the near future, and focus on the dull mundane oppression of boring dystopia. Be pessimistic in tone. Write it in the first person.
gpt
Summer, Frez Cali, 2066. I hate this place. 

Outside my cramped box of an apartment, the temp is a cookin’ at 120F degrees. The low buildings of the sprawling city fade into a gray haze, and the sound of jet airplanes constantly booming overhead overwhelms the drone of traffic on the nearby highways. My box sits adjacent to the canal, alongside which runs the railroad. Either side of the canal is a barren stretch of gravel and dirt that runs its whole length through the city, pock-marked with debris and tents for the homeless. On days like this, looking down the length of the canal, all one sees is a blurred mirage cast from the sun-baked earth. Inside my cramped, messy home, staring at the door, I stand parcel in hand. I need to head out into that oven. 

Earbuds in, stinking of layers of freshly-applied sunscreen, I go out.

For all the issues afflicting my run-down apartment, it at least does a good job of keeping this hellscape outside. The moment I step forward I am filled with second thoughts. The heat presses against me from all angles, and my earbuds only partially stifle the cracking sonic booms.

“Delivery?!” Dan shouts.

I turn toward Dan. He looks at me, laying on his cot inside his tent, drenched in sweat. A veteran from the Pacific conflict thirty years ago, he lives in his tent beside my apartment. A mixed bag of a man. Some nights when it’s cool I’ll sit outside and chat with him for a bit. When he’s not having one of his episodic fits, he’s decent enough for company. 

“Yeah, delivery,” I shout back. 

“That sucks,” he says. Or at least I assume that’s what he said, I couldn’t quite hear it. I nod at him and turn to start my day. Only one job in the queue, $240. This job might feed me for the week, but I’ll need to cross my fingers for some more work soon or I might become Dan’s roommate. 

Sweat is already beading on my forehead, and I haven’t even taken a step. Three miles, one parcel. I hate this place.

I walk along the canal, earbuds blasting music into my skull, trying my best to feel nothing.