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

"Misery can be one thought away sometimes." A powerful thought, and one I cannot help but reflect on. It is the morning of Monday, June 3, 2024. The time is a symmetrical 5:20am, the bigger number a full and flawless multiplication by four of the smaller. I was reminded of the poignancy of the quote I've just mentioned, as was found in an email I received just two days ago, shortly before turning in for bed last night. I find myself a bit less enamored with the 'night shift' CNA who has been handling duties recently. How ironic it is that just as I finished typing that sentence, I heard her loudly admonish another house-mate with a stressed, exasperated "Let's go!" While I am grateful that she has treated me with some semblance of respect, and for the most part leaves me alone, I am not nearly as thankful for how she has treated some of my other house-mates. She runs a tight ship, arguably even tighter than the house manager, but the differences between her and the person who actually runs this house are quite evident. One rules with firmness but fairness, while the other rules by intimidation. I am the second-youngest of the eight 'clients' in this house; the youngest is almost a full decade my junior. Three of the eight are over fifty-five years old, while the oldest is several years away from turning eighty. There is one pushing forty, and two more in their mid-thirties. Though most of us are still young, in relative terms, the irony is that some of the younger ones are at least as vulnerable as the elders, in some cases even more so. I am of the mind that to succeed in a job like this, it takes an exceptional sense of compassion. Whatever compassion this young woman has seems to be dominated by stress, and that stress seeps into how she performs her job. I hear it every time she chides a house-mate for a mistake they made or barks orders at them, such as the militaristic way she commands us to turn in for bed, or to come to the table for breakfast. From my room, I could not help but overhear our oldest house-mate, who is now seventy-six years old, say something to her in what sounded like a very meek, almost defeated sort of vocal tone. Apparently he is no stranger to her personality traits and habits, and I know he is far more aware of them than I, having been a client since 1987...which was so long ago that Joe Gibbs had only won one of his eventual three Super Bowls as a head coach with the Washington Redskins (to use one of a seemingly infinite variety of metrics). As I was formulating the last couple of sentences, she knocked on the door and asked me to vacate the room for what turned into approximately twenty minutes (which may be a somewhat generous measurement) so that she could do some mopping. Upon my return my nostrils were greeted by faint traces of bleach, which is to say she definitely got the job done. She was understanding when I informed her I had to save something first, which I made sure to do in as timely a manner as possible. It seems that she regards me as an equal or greater, as I have demonstrated some semblance of powers of articulation, combined with a willingness to pull my own weight and attend to tasks whenever it is requested of me. Though I am glad that she treats me relatively nicely, I wish she would extend that same niceness to the others. As tempted as I have been to speak up, I have thus far made a conscious effort to not get involved. To file a complaint would require an impressive amount of documentation simply for it to be taken into consideration, and thus far I have not seen or heard anything so excessively out of line with reasonable standards to necessitate doing so. I can recall one time where she screamed the name of my oldest house-mate in an unusually infuriated--almost blood-curdling--cadence, in all likelihood with him in extremely close proximity. Thus far it has been the clear outlier, and for all I know she may not have been in a good mood that day, or he may have inadvertently done something egregious, to such an extent that the impact affected others in the house. It is not to say that there is any real justification for yelling at a senior citizen who has minimal capabilities at this stage of their life to defend themselves, but it does go a long way in possibly explaining why these things occur. There is no way to truly tell what the local ombudsman is occupied with on a daily basis, and they may have far more urgent matters to attend to, presuming there is more severe treatment of residents happening in other homes in South Florida, which is a highly definite possibility. My friend Evelyn has assured me that if I see things that make me uncomfortable, to let her know as soon as possible. As frustrating as it can be to deal with aggression from a nursing assistant, I do realize that their jobs are stressful, and this is but a drop in the bucket compared to other things I have seen over the years, both first-hand and through my studies of what happens in our world each day. I hear what sounds like cereal being poured into a bowl, an indicator that it will soon be time for breakfast. From my seat, if I turn to the northwest, I will have a clear view of the film now being shown on the Lifetime Movie Network (or LMN for short; after all, we live in a day and age where abbreviations are in vogue again--ironically, the logo's aesthetic bears some resemblance to the classic HBO logo, so it is at least partially clear what and who they were influenced by). Upon taking my seat on the couch, I was greeted by approximately the last twenty minutes of what the LMN website refers to as "informational programming", a generic classification for the products promoted in paid programming advertisements. Thankfully, I was able to avoid about half of that 'brain drain' thanks to a prompt that came up about updating the Xfinity X1 box's firmware. Even the bilingual 'Welcome' screen that got resized from standard to high-def, adjusting itself to fit the dimensions of the television's resolution, was more mentally stimulating. We have been called for breakfast, and I am indeed able to catch a glimpse from my seat of the film, a made-for-television movie called "Guilty at 17." Not even in the stratosphere of being considered a masterpiece, but far beyond the standards of the horrendous Nollywood film that I recall being exposed to some weeks back. (To those working in Guantanamo Bay: forget waterboarding. If you want someone to talk, play a Nigerian movie. There is no worse form of torture.) My eyes light up once I discover that we are having oatmeal this morning. My favorite of all breakfasts, and the CNA has done an exceptionally superb job of preparing it. Savoring each bite, I have found perhaps the most valuable reason to be patient with this woman, aside from how nice she has been to me. "Anyone who can make oatmeal this good can't be all that bad," I think to myself. The tension of the early morning has mellowed into a calm peace, as the birds chirp outside. I am seated further away from the windows and have a less clear view of what is outside than before, as Evelyn and her son helped to rearrange the dressers, following a marvelous lunch at a local First Watch (the "classic breakfast" is divine, though I would still like to try their steel-cut oatmeal). I am now using the radio's weather band, at a low volume, as my 'night music'. Very relaxing, and educational.