It’s impossible to get anything done anymore.
Wake up at 6. Shit shower shave. (Some people say you should shave before showering; they’re wrong.) Attempt to meditate even though it’s impossible. Throw on a wrinkled button-up and a sport coat. Add a tie into the mix. Re-tie it because it’s too short. Re-re-tie it because it’s too long. Perfect. Then I’m out the door.
It’s an hour drive to work, so I listen to audiobooks; today it’s the autobiography of Willie Nelson. I zone out at least half the time, thinking of what bills I need to pay or how I should have fucked that one blonde girl from high school. After who knows how long, I come to and Willie — or at least a guy pretending to be him for the audiobook — is yammering on about his third child (Willie Hugh Nelson, Jr., just in case you care). I imagine the amazing life Willie’s lived, and imagine a bright future for myself.
Meanwhile, I finally arrive at work. It’s a government gig, so I have to spend eight hours pretending to be doing actual work. I fire up the computer and open my email. There’s half-a-dozen unread messages, nearly all of which are of no importance.
In between deleting email, I look at Snapchat on my phone to see if any girls have sent me pictures of their titties. The answer is almost always “no.” When I was a broke college student spending half of each week drunk or hungover (or both), cute girls eagerly shared their bodies with me. Now that I’m a postgraduate professional, the fat girls won’t even send me a tit shot.
Work emails blend into mindless internet browsing, always under the guise of “research.” After a while, I walk around the office and talk to my co-workers, who are as mindlessly bored as I am. We shoot the shit and time log it all as work meetings. If I’m feeling really ambitious, I’ll return to my office and fire off a few emails of my own before lunch.
I have an hour for lunch but it usually lasts closer to two. At least one or two co-workers will join, and we’ll consider it a working lunch, so the extra time doesn’t matter. All the guys love the Chinese buffet, where everything tastes like syrup and dish soap. I tag along anyway and pretend to fit in.
The afternoon is more of the same. If the boss is out, I’ll close the door, kick my feet up on the desk, and slip in and out of consciousness for an hour or so. More emails. More mindless clicking. Opening windows only to minimize them so I can do the same to others. On and on it goes until the clock strikes five.
After work, it’s an hour home. More audiobooks. More zoning out and thinking about the blonde chick I should’ve fucked in high school. More coming to in the middle of a paragraph, wondering what the hell the narrator has been talking about.
I get home and almost always, my girlfriend is waiting for me. If we’re feeling energized, we’ll go to the gym and work out. I do deadlifts until my nuts hurt and go to the sauna religiously, but my body still looks like it’s made from Play-Doh. My only saving grace is that every other guy in this town weighs three hundred pounds.
We return to the house and have dinner. It’s usually something paleo-friendly, like steak and salad or steak and steamed vegetables or steak and eggs. I briefly wonder how I’m still so damn pudgy, eating a perfect diet, and then I remember that I ate two baskets of tortilla chips at the Mexican restaurant for lunch.
After dinner I sometimes have a glass of red wine or a single-malt scotch. Sometimes I read biographies of great men; other times I hatchet hookers to death on Grand Theft Auto. No matter what I do, it all feels like a waste of time.
On the lucky evenings when my girlfriend isn’t waiting home for me, I celebrate by drinking more. That kicks my already insatiable sex drive into high gear, and I inevitably spend the rest of the night jerking off to homemade videos of me fucking old girlfriends. It’s as close as I can get to the real deal since I don’t watch porn. Again, it’s all a waste of time.
I head to bed later than I should, knowing that tomorrow holds the exact same thing.