Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes. Keep it as written, don't change a single word, but improve grammar where necessary.

Three minutes to 5:30am. Fresh off taking my morning shower, I am decked out in everything except my work jacket. The plan is to put that on about ten minutes before we are due out the door. Apparently, we've been having problems lately with it getting wrinkled, through seemingly no fault of my own. The wrinkling was severe enough for the house manager to openly contemplate whether I had hangers in my closet, or whether I was just rolling everything up into a ball and picking it up to put it on when the need arose. I hear the 'night shift' CNA--the same young lady who graciously listened to some of my recollections last Sunday--losing her patience with another, and much more vulnerable, house-mate. She seems to have calmed down, as her tone has shifted from frustration to stern concern. It reminds me of the fact that it is difficult to find good help these days. She is good at her job, but I can't help but imagine she would absolutely excel in another field. Working in a group home, working with people who have been dealt some brutal hands in life, people who need compassion far more than they need someone yelling and screaming in their ears, takes a person with an incredible heart. Someone who is well versed on personality types would probably tell you it takes an INFJ; good luck finding one in close proximity, as that's the rarest type of them all, and if the results of a test I took a few months back are anything to go by, I can actually be classified as such. Maybe I will be in such a position in the future; it is by no means something I would mind, and in fact I would enjoy it very much. At the same time, it doesn't seem like many CNAs are paid particularly well; your potential to earn a livable wage depends in large part on where you work, and unfortunately there are only a small handful of places that pay enough for a CNA to lead a comfortable existence. Many of the ones who are in the field today have taken the job not necessarily because it was their calling, but because they needed to do something to keep their heads above water. The majority of people who are sufficiently suited for nursing jobs are either making just as much as they would have made doing that or far more in a different field. It leads me to reflect, however selfishly it may seem, on the fact that I too am expendable.. I am surrounded by seven house-mates, each of whom is more vulnerable than I am in one aspect, and at least one of whom may be less so in other aspects. I did not ask to be put on this planet. I did not ask for a condom to break. I did not ask to be forced to deal with life's trials and tribulations. I did not ask for my parents to die. And I most certainly did not ask to be in the care of overworked, underpaid strangers. Sure enough, this is what I am currently dealing with. At the very least, I am grateful to be able to brave a situation to which I would not have willingly exposed my parents. For all my flaws as a son, I managed to keep them out of being in a nursing home, and kept a promise that I would do my best to take care of them. To say the very least, this house is not a home. While I'll always be grateful to have a roof over my head, I feel nowhere near the same love here that I did from my blood family. I feel like a client taking advantage of a service, and sure enough this is what we are to JARC: 'clients'. My 'brothers' are not my brothers. My 'sisters' are not my sisters. My 'mother' is not my mother. For now, I will make the most of this situation for as long as I can, but there is a part of me that longs for the day when I will either have another house, or even end up homeless. As much as I used to dread the thought of not having a roof over my head, there is a freedom in that which I do not have here. I am free to roam from place to place, to make my own decisions, to take destiny into my own hands, and above all to see more of the world than what is allotted to me under these circumstances. I look to the left to an old portrait of my mother when she was a child. Seeing the butterflies adorning her dress I wonder: if they could have willed themselves to a separation from the stitches in that fabric, would they have taken flight the moment they knew it was possible? If I could will myself to a similar separation, what would come of it if I were to 'take flight'? Is it necessary for me? If I were to leave, theoretically, I would be quickly returned and perhaps placed under much tighter scrutiny. For the moment, and for the most part, people tend to leave me alone. It seems I am considered trustworthy enough to be able to assert some semblance of independence, to the fullest extent it is allowed. I am more vulnerable than people realize. There are times where my vulnerability almost slips out, but I have had to be careful not to shed tears, not to show frustration. If I were not so articulate, if I were a smidgen less well-mannered than I have shown myself to be, if I were not capable of doing the work that I do in the kitchen, I would most likely be in far more dire straits in terms of how I am treated in this household. I consider myself a kind person, or at least I try to treat the people around me with the same respect I would want to be shown. At the same time, I do not want people to take that kindness for weakness. It isn't as though I sit around, waiting, plotting the exact moment when it will be necessary to demonstrate a righteous indignation. But there may come a time when I will have to speak up, regardless of the cost to myself and to others. For now, the atmosphere is calm enough for me to not give serious thought to voicing my concerns. I am summoned out of my room for a few moments for the CNA to do some cleaning. "Maybe if she got up earlier, she could get all of this done before most of us start waking up at around 5:00am," I think to myself. Perhaps she is pushing herself to her limits. Maybe it isn't possible for her to get up any earlier. She does all that she can. It is interesting to take my place on one of the living room couches. I am greeted by the conclusion of a paid programming advertisement and the beginning of what is apparently the third hour of a "Vanderpump Rules" reunion. I'd never see a series like this willingly, not even for a laugh as there is nothing appealing about the variety of humor it espouses, with at least one profanity being covered up by a bleep approximately once every 5 seconds. "This show is so stupid," I say quietly. No one responds in agreement or protest, the others seemingly numbed into a sort of grim acceptance. Back in my room, being able to turn on PBS, it is as though a bad taste is being washed out of my mouth. That's not to say everything on public television is perfect, but you'll certainly be better for watching whatever is on over the misadventures of the Vanderpumps. I glance again to my left, to a spot on the wall just below the portrait. I now have a tiny American flag hanging on the wall, secured with a push pin and two pieces of tape that I managed to salvage from what remained of a "Welcome!" sign that had been created for the former resident (or 'client') whose room I inherited upon his relocation to another care facility. Not exactly the apex of letting your imagination soar, but at least the flag is being displayed with a little more respect and the push pin and tape are being used for something now. A hopeful start to future customization.