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

With the closing strains of Edd Kalehoff's 'alternate' theme to Monday Night Football on ABC--used from 1989 to around 2005--still resonating in my spirit, I take off my blue earbuds and sit down to do some more writing. "What happened to you, Cam?" I can't help but ask myself. "You were knocking out piece after piece, day after day. But now you're getting sloppy, man. You're losing your touch. Get with it!" I'm tempted to answer back, but dignity prevails and I allow my inner doubting Thomas the chance to blow off some steam. Paying it no mind, I sit down with my thoughts. I am alone in a loose sense, but not truly. Even with my door shut, there is no such thing as solitude. And yet, in this moment, there is nothing but the universe. A black bird flies by to the west, chirping a song along the way. Am I returning to my old ways? Is the devil fighting once again to destroy my peace? Is it true that the closer you get to happiness, the harder a supernatural force strives to destroy it? More chirping is heard, but I cannot tell if it is the same bird or a different one. Its tone is similar, but it could be a relative. The chirping continues. It is embracing its soapbox, making the most of an opportunity to communicate its thoughts. Every day provides me with these opportunities. But could I have been making more of each day? Or, perhaps, was I making too much of a day by putting pressure on myself to keep going? The bird chirps again, and this time is joined by another orator in a symphony of self-expression. Their tones overlap. The interplay captivates me. I yearn to grasp the meanings of their melodies. In my dreams I ascend to the sky, my metamorphosis from human to an avian complete, rising beyond the mundanity of everyday life. I am one with the gray skies, each raindrop a force to heal. I once feared the sensation, but now embrace it. Each droplet has the healing power of a thousand trips to the local spa. I glance northeast. The sun is now peeking through tree branches. The sky is not completely blue, but the darkness that had once existed has returned to a pure light. The bird chirps again. It has not run out of things to say. It may take a while to find itself, but once it has, it has become its only limitation. I am now my only limit. An inherently senseless life has never made more sense to me. Over thirty years ago, a couple of people came together, and I was the end result. Will I continue my bloodline? Part of me feels an obligation to, but I could be just as happy being the last of my kind. There is only one of me, a fact that I am sure is relieving to more than one individual. I can only be myself. I have caused enough destruction. I have some time to bandage the wounds. But how many bandages can I apply before my time is up? Or maybe there's no point in worrying. I will be forced to relive and remember my past, but why worry about who I was? It's not who I am now. I'm not done yet. God is not through with me. In the background, an episode of M*A*S*H is playing on a 'retro' station. In a few minutes I may be able to identify which one, but the smart money is on MeTV. I sit down to look at one of two pamphlets recovered from a restaurant visit just the other day. "Huey Magoo's (R) Chicken Tenders." Though I realize why they put the symbol there, seeing them takes me out of the immersion a bit. Still, seeing a multitude of tenders arranged in a circular formation, concentrated around a cup of honey mustard sauce, gets me in just the right mood. It is not a mood suitable for the moment, as I can still feel the chicken and couscous we had for our meal tonight. Alas, one of our housemates was not interested in having it, and repeatedly made noises of frightened disdain. As much as I wanted to help him, I do not know all of the things that he likes to eat. Seeing how our weekend house manager tried to handle the situation gives me more appreciation for everything they do. I realize that they are under a lot of stress. I do not take many things in a personal way anymore. I am abandoning my sense of entitlement. Some battles aren't meant to be fought and not every victory is a victory, nor is every loss a loss. One day at a time, the journey towards greater self-awareness continues. The old consciousness must die for our spirit to achieve a rebirth. I'm not at this minute who I was one minute prior. I will not be in five minutes what I am right now. Turns out it was not M*A*S*H, but "The Love Boat" playing on the living room television. My mind is inclined to tune in, but quickly tries to tune it out. A bell rings. Hackneyed words are heard, and are followed by a laugh track. Reminders of something that should feel timeless but comes off stale. A housemate coughs. He has no choice but to sit in the living room. Wanting to sit down with him, I am tempted to leave my seat and save a 'test.txt' file to come back to later. But I am getting hot. Lush orchestral music comes from the television. Perhaps the best part of some of these old series was the music. The composers of those days had sensibilities that are sorely missed in today's media. The theme winds down. I feel as though the name of the series is on the tip of my tongue. All I can think of is the title song from "Guys and Dolls." I know that is not where it is from, but it is the best guess I have. After only about a minute of advertising, the show returns, as does the hackneyed dialogue. The laugh track comes in right on cue. Would my housemates ever notice when the laughs get recycled? Perhaps not. They don't pay close enough attention. But I can't fault them...neither do I. More dialogue. Two laugh tracks in less than five seconds. I wonder how humanity got by before video games. It gives me more respect for the older generations who found ways to keep themselves occupied that did not involve electricity. The CNA helping out today--a wonderful young woman who I will call "Ms. J"--rolls her bucket down the hallway, mop in tow. I hear her dip the mop in the bucket, and my heart is delighted by the sound of the water splashing. Water flows again, this time from a sink in close proximity. An indecipherable punchline is followed by yet another laugh track. The dialogue is so mechanical, so stale. My housemates are enamored. They have learned to settle for less. It cannot captivate my imagination. I glance at the pamphlet again. "The Filet Mignon of Chicken (R)." Once more, the symbol threatens to divert me from the advertisement's intent. An accidental judgment call resulted in my eating a plate of hand-breaded tenders, when it turns out I had ordered grilled. The switcheroo is not noticed or called out by any housemates or staff, nor do I volunteer a confession. Life is too short. Of all the things to feel guilty about, why chicken? The notion makes zero sense. I flip to the back and see two QR codes. The immersion dissipates, as I place the pamphlets in a nearby drawer. Our acting manager says something that may have been in Creole. I cannot tell; to be honest, I was thinking about something else. She says another thing, and again, I cannot decipher it. Sometimes, I get nervous because it seems as though she is always stressed, never truly enjoying this work. The people who are best qualified are doing something else. But we have who we have, and I want only to make their lives as easy as possible. I take care of myself, and help them when it is needed. The bird chirps once more. He waited. Or was it a different one? As the song comes and goes, so too does mine. Another housemate asks where we are going tomorrow. It is a question that remains on her mind. Her innocence moves me. She never meant to cause anyone trouble. Like me, she did not ask to be here. Whatever the reasons are, we are together. I want to be good to my family. It is a family now. Chirps come again. A drawer is shut in the distance. I breathe so as not to incur damage to my heart. Lost in thought, sometimes I forget. The housemate again ponders our forthcoming destination. Perhaps she cannot tell days, and relies on us to keep her posted. I have known people who can't discern days or tell time. It makes me more grateful to possess the faculties I have. God is still good to us all. He has interesting ways of showing His love, but I have learned not to question them anymore. "Watch where you're walking," yet another housemate says, most likely an admonishment of the 'day ponderer.' She has a tendency to give running commentary and has no qualms about communicating her observations. She is old-school, and likes to visit my room, to check up on me. She has fought her own battles and sees a social worker from time to time. There is so much I will never know about others in the house. Now I understand that I can never know them until I know myself. I wait for a chirp. It doesn't come. All is still again. The chirps return, time unfrozen. My brain guides the fingers as the blood flows. My end, and my beginning, are now one.