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

Another day has begun. It's 4:12am as of the time I type this, and were it not for an accidental drop of my phone--which was completely my fault, and no one else's--as my road rose to meet Mo, a new CNA and fresh addition to the Joshua House family, it would be a completely normal day. And yet, somehow, it already feels completely normal. My phone has been transformed into a modern art masterpiece that would make Gunnery Sgt. Hartman proud. My right brain is drawn to the intriguing combination of lines that adorn the screen, lines of varying levels of thickness that seem to form pillars of light around them. Their interplay with the cracks that primarily adorn the upper portion of the screen seems to add a 'secret' functionality that would not have been hinted at in the owners' manual: the ability to function as a standalone work art, in addition to its capability to display the works that have been created by innumerable talented individuals over millennia. Were it not for the primary functionality of the device itself having been compromised, in the sense that I cannot access most apps without the phone backtracking to the 'settings' screen (for example, or for some improved specificity, if I try to use Chrome, I'm usually brought a few seconds later to a page where you can adjust WiFi and other options), I would still be gladly using it in its current state. However, as there is a necessity to ensure the phone is sufficiently functional and useful for those situations where I have to make or receive an important call or text, I had to summon my courage to reach out to the house manager about having repairs done on it. As it turns out, there wasn't much for me to be nervous about. It was very reassuring to find out that she considers it a pleasure to have me here, and I assured her in turn that I would be more than happy to pull extra weight in exchange for any favors she is willing to do for me. With any luck, in the next few days the phone should be back to normal, but it is yet another reminder of the cruel misfortunes that await a phone when it makes contact with a tile floor. Having had my share of accidental drops over the last few months, including a particularly bad one prior to yesterday's drop that caused the initial cracks in the top portion of the screen; that drop occurred long enough ago to have preceded my move to the Joshua House. I am not sure if I have mentioned this in a prior piece, but I always found it humorous how I used to have a Facebook friend known as "Joshua House", and now reside in a home with his namesake. Of course, there is no affiliation; the actual namesake of this home is none other than Joshua Rales, one of several sons of the developer Norman Rales, with whose generosity it was funded and constructed more than ten years ago. (Of course it has undergone some maintenance work since then, or at least I would hope so!) I am led to believe that a rather unfortunate pair of shorts, a carryover from the old house at Deer Pointe, was part if not parcel of the cause for the phone accidentally 'eating tile'. Out of sight, out of mind, I say to myself. My frugality rears its ugly head again, as does the desire for a CNA to not find a pair of shorts in the nearby women's bathroom (its receptacle serving as my usual 'hidey hole' for tiny trash tidbits). Remembering I still have the box that came with a pair of size-12 shoes recently gifted to me by a JARC employee, and being the weirdo that I am, I decided to put the shorts in that box. It's my way of holding onto something that could still be useful for another purpose, even if its smaller-than-normal pockets and circular fabric rips have outmoded it its intended use. As I sat down this morning to write, exactly half an hour ago as I check the clock on the bottom right corner of my XP screen, I was tempted to just sit here in my underwear, without putting on a shirt. However, I'm not a fan of catching chills, getting sick, and having to miss work. Thus far, it hasn't happened in my time here, and I would like to keep it that way. I slapped together a makeshift ensemble, a red pair of shorts and a green shirt that is now beginning to fit more loosely given all of the weight I have lost. It seems this is true of most of my clothes now, and I don't know how long it will be until I legitimately have to invest in a fresh wardrobe. Even when I go on stage on Thursday afternoons and participate in 'boxing' sessions, it is difficult to do the part of the workout that involves jumping up and down. Though my pants remain in their normal orientation when I am idle or doing kitchen work, they have an unfortunate tendency to start sliding down when I start testing the gravitational pull of the Earth. Fortunately, I gained a brief respite yesterday when I let loose with an old classic, Kool Moe Dee's seminal "I Go to Work". It has been almost fifteen years since I performed it at the first Monarch High talent show. At this point, it has become my equivalent to Al Bundy's 4 touchdowns in a single game. I see so much of myself in Al, including the side that wanted my destiny to go in a certain direction, only for fate to deal a different hand. It seemed to go over well with the crowd, which made me very happy, though in my own personal assessment I could have handled it with a little bit more smoothness. Still, when you are up on stage and feeling the intensity of your environment, and having to be conscious not only of yourself but those around you, you are led to certain methods in the moment. Under the circumstances, I did as well as I was ever going to do, and that's perfectly fine by me. There seems to be an interest in me returning to do additional performances on Thursdays, and while I don't know how fresh I can keep it without having to bring back a song I've done before, I am always looking forward to having a microphone in my hand. In my mind, a stage is the most fun place in the world to be. Though some may see it as a cage, the irony I've found is that in what one may perceive as the confines of a limited space, I have never felt trapped. In fact, not including my writing time, it is only when I am standing on a stage that I feel completely free. The presence of an audience does not intimidate me. I welcome it. It is a chance for me to make an impression on you, to give you something that will hopefully be unforgettable, in the most optimistic sense of the word. In a little less than four hours, I will be putting in another shift in the kitchen. The warmth with which I have been welcomed by its veterans has been deeply moving, and I hope to justify their trust and kindness. I do regret the disappointment that will inevitably befall my dear friend and coworker, who is surely looking forward to getting his daily dose of Eyal Golan and Itzik Kala. It may still be possible to make it happen but not without a few cracks in that pavement (not unlike the literal ones that are now in my screen). It'll be a reminder to him--as it is to me--that we can't always get what we want, and have it the way we like it, all the time. If it is any consolation, I'll be coming back in a red shirt, as he seems to enjoy it when I wear that color. Sadly, it looks like I'll have to put some mileage on a red polo, as my other red shirts are still in need of a return trip to the washer and dryer, and my closest available T-shirt equivalents to red come closer to a dark shade of orange.