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

A Batman mask. An electronic keyboard arrangement of the opening notes of "I've Been Working on the Railroad." Two things that should never go together, and yet I experienced both in short order this Monday morning. Sometimes I wonder where the line is that separates this home from becoming a mental hospital. As insane and madness-ridden as our circumstances can become, I am still holding onto my sanity. It is now five minutes past 5:00am. I'm not sure how long it will take before the CNA in charge, the 'graveyard gal' who always comes on Sunday nights and takes care of everything on Monday mornings, asks me to temporarily vacate my room so that she can mop in here. In preparation for it I have already...whoops, pardon me a moment. Ah, now that's better. While working on pieces, I usually create a draft file, generically label it 'test.txt', and save it to the "My Documents" folder of my C: drive. In the extremely unlikely--but still 0.01% possible--case of my abduction by space ninjas, should someone find a computer with a 'test.txt' file stored on it, right below a folder labeled as "potpouri", there is a 99.9% chance that the computer was once mine. Have fun with it! (I encourage you to put an SSD in here, and maybe replace or upgrade the optical drive; though the HDD and DVD-RW drive that came with it are still kicking, there's no telling how much longer they're going to last.) As she is currently preoccupied in the kitchen, indicated by the sound of bowls and plates clinking, I take my available opportunity to return to the designated men's bathroom, knowing she is not in a close enough proximity to deny my access, as she has done at least twice before since apparently her cleaning of the bathroom takes priority over a resident--oops, I mean 'client'--needing to relieve themselves. Please don't take it as a complaint; I am grateful that she performs such maintenance, but I do wish that there was a system in place to ensure that the house would be cleaned during the day, when all of us are at the main JARC building. In my case, I will be back to join one particular housemate and several other good people for several hours of gainful employment in the JARC kitchen, a place known to the public as "Cafe 95." It has been an interesting morning so far; my greeting came not in the form of a gentle "good morning" but several knocks on my door. I knew exactly from whence those knocks originated, and gave the knocker the "good morning" that she subsequently proceeded to deny me. If nothing else, it is heartening to know that we are all seen as equally worthless in that regard and I'll take those knocks over being yelled at, as I heard her yelling at several housemates in an effort to speed up the process of everyone getting up, taking a shower, and preparing for the day ahead. I've said it before, and it bears saying again: I hope she treats her own son better than she treats my housemates. I realize she sees this as a job, that we are indeed clients receiving her services, rather than a family coming together in peace and harmony. I also realize that being a CNA is one of the most stressful jobs out there. It requires someone with an extraordinary sense of love and compassion, and sadly there are precious few in our world who are loving and compassionate these days. The job doesn't pay as well as some would think, and the ones who are most qualified for it are doing something else, and hopefully making more money for their efforts. The paperwork never ends; in fact, I recall someone once saying that the home health care system is scrutinized and regulated just as tightly as the prison system, in some cases even more so. Everything has to be documented. To some of these people, I may be little more than a name on a sheet, a concept surrounded by boxes that they must check, an idea about which they can write the little they know, and opinions or predictions with regards to what is unclear. The CNA in charge right now regulates everything tightly, like clockwork: she had the hallway lights out at 9:00pm last night, and started getting people out of bed at 4:00am. By those standards, the best we could hope for is to get seven hours of sleep; the old recommendation was eight a night, but authorities such as the Mayo Clinic have lowered that advisement to seven. And it does seem to be a 'magic number'; with anything less than seven I don't have that 'rested' feeling when I wake up in the morning. While trying to settle into my rest, having put the phone back on its charger for the night, I heard the CNA conversing quite loudly, in what I believe was Haitian Creole. "Whatever helps take the edge off," I think to myself. This is a woman who did not graduate college. I'm not sure if she even went to a university, though a diploma is no measure of any person's worth. She comes from a culture that is worlds apart from my own, as do many of the other people who spend part of their day working at the home. She probably dealt with strict parents and tension at home, her perception of the world influenced at a young age by seeing how people treat one another. In a more impoverished environment, or an environment where people argue more and say "I love you" less, it is inevitable someone may grow up to treat others the same way. It makes me more grateful to have parents who were so loving and compassionate towards me, and I now understand why they were trying to shield me from the some of more negative aspects of this world. I grew up with "Caillou," "Barney and Friends," "Arthur" and other such programs during my younger days. Much of the content to which I was exposed presented images of a more perfect world, ideals of what this Earth could be rather than what it actually was. I believed then, as I do now, that imagination is just as important as reality. A loud call goes out for us to have breakfast, and this time around we are on somewhat of a timer; this CNA has much more of a no-nonsense attitude when it comes to table chatter. A serving of scrambled eggs, sliced fruit and four cheese blintzes later (I started with two and was gifted two more by a housemate who doesn't like blintzes), along with two trips to the dumpster, and I am back at my desk. The CNA's attitude seems to soften up a bit with me, probably because she knows a bit of my story, and is aware of some of the things I have been through. (It may help that I am more independent, and that worries me because I can only imagine how people are going to be treating me once I am older and less able to do things for myself.) I am grateful she doesn't treat me significantly differently from my housemates. The last thing I ever wanted is to be the 'darling' of the house. She can be tough but does her job well, aside from being temperamental and loud; maybe it is necessary for others who live here. Perhaps some of the others have pushed her buttons one time too many. I don't know the details. Again, I realize that it is a stressful job, and you can be stretched thin when you are by yourself and have to take care of things for eight different people. Over the last few months, there have been times where I wanted to raise my voice and say something, but didn't because it was all about keeping the peace. Peace is more important than pride, and like my friend Sonja I want to feel joy every day. A bird sings resonantly, passionately, but firmly, as though it were giving a pep talk. I'll be okay.