Ah. to be home

When I was born, they placed me in an incubator box.
I live in a state run by Barbara Boxer.
I live in a box house, on a street with many other box houses.
I drive my box car, to my box building job.
Where I will work for 45 years until I am ready for a much smaller box.
I work in a box, called a cubicle.
I stare at a box (computer screen) all day.
Inside that box are little box windows.
I sort stuff into boxes, which are named "folders".
I print stuff out, where I walk down the hallway to pick it up from a big box printer. The printer is always broken. Piece of crap.
I talk to my boss in his big box office.
I pick up my box lunch from the cafeteria.
Occasionally, I check my mailbox for junk mail.
I work in long box called a "lab".
I take a dump in a box stall.
In the evening, I illegally take the diamond lane home (which is just a box rotated 45 degrees).
After parking, I notice there is a brown box left by my front door.
Delivered by the box man in his box truck.
I carry my box into my box house, where I am greeted by my family and my dogs. So much joy, that you forget about the mediocre day filled with boxes. F-da boxes, I am home.