How does this excerpt from my story sound?

John Dinka woke to a screeching noise that un-relentlessly clawed his ears like a wild beast. Face down on his pillow, he opened his eyes and gazed into the ash wall for a few moments before jumping out of bed and attacking the snooze button on his invasive alarm clock. After a few more than necessary slaps to the top of his alarm clock, John Dinka peered outside of his window, which was the only thing that was clean in the entire apartment, although, most people wouldn’t sum up John Dinka’s apartment with the word: entirely. The words half or almost would be more appropriate. Outside of his window, there were five taxi cabs parked on the street, a corner vendor that would sell hot dogs for less than the normal price to John Dinka after his drunken pre-dusk walks around town, and a large fenced park diagonally to his left. The grass in the park looked like somebody had poured mass amounts of yellow cabbage onto the ground, and John Dinka ******* hated yellow cabbage. He turned around in disgust and hopped into his half-shower. It was 7:45 a.m on a Thursday. Time ticked like it always has, and John Dinka’s alarm clock went off while he was in the shower, like it always does. A plethora of quite imaginative curse words screamed loud enough to wake the inhabitants of the neighboring apartment was usually the selected response from John Dinka, for now he had to put his steamy shower on hold while he turned the alarm off, which would subtract one minute and thirty seconds from his morning schedule, (and not to mention juice up the heating bill) as he would have to spend an extra minute and thirty seconds washing the conditioner out of his static orange hair. It seemed that John Dinka’s mornings were meticulously planned out, perhaps better than most sane people. John Dinka was, of course, sane. His random outbursts of anger, obvious alcoholism, and sociopathic tendencies were just by-products of a world that moves in masses, always forgetting the John Dinka’s of society. He chocked all of it up to society like it was trendy. As a matter of fact, John Dinka may have been ahead of the curve because, for the journalist’ at the Chicago Tribune, there was nothing trendier than finding a valid excuse for blaming society. Nope. John Dinka was completely sane by his own and everybody else’s standard. John Dinka finished tying his solid red tie over a creased burnt marshmallow dress shirt. He grabbed his keys off the dresser, and walked casually out of his apartment door even though he knew he was a minute and thirty seconds behind schedule. He would never show it. He led himself down the maroon carpeted stairs, through the bright lobby, and out to his rust green sedan.