Your life sucks don’t it? (chapter 2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

You wake up and blindly feel for your phone. It’s supposed to be on the bedside table dammit! There it is. You check the time: 7.30, you Don’t even react. That’s half an hour to wake up, do all the usual morning stuff and go on a 45 minute commute. You decide to waste another give minutes thinking about how screwed you are. Another thought flash: what if you just didn’t get out of bed? Where if you threw in the towel on this whole bout with life and decided to retire to the confines of your sheets. No more early mornings, no more late nights, no more having to deal with people you could just be you. But then you rCartoon-Clipart-Of-A-Black-And-White-Sad-Man-In-An-Easter-Bunny-Costume-Vector-Outlined-Coloring-Page-10241139052emember you’ve become quite partial to three square meals a day, and water and sanitation are hood things to have, plus all the other things that make life good no bearable. You drag yourself out of bed, punish yourself with a cold shower, quickly nibble on a banana and step out. Another day in the jungle. The commute is shit: as always. The city center is crowded: no surprise. Everyone at the office is already settled down and frowning over spreadsheets and computer monitors. You never realised it before, but no one smiles when they’re working, everyone has a creased brow and locked jaw and these glazed over eyes like glass. Even the secretary has a look of such determination and focus, she must be calculating the probability of the phone ringing with the regional manager on the other line while she’s under her supervisor’s desk: researching. You dive into this sea of misery, luckily no higher rank saw you slither in late. The motions begin, it’s a song: click click, tap tap tap, printer slow hum… tap tap click click, tearing paper click. It engulfs you and you become a part of it. Your mind isn’t even there any more, it’s soaring high in dream land, seeing made up people and walking down fantasy streets that lead to grand castles. You look at the clock, half an hour to lunch. You start the great debate as to what you’ll eat today, a decision made not only by your brain, but a council made up of your gut, tongue, wallet and ego. All with different views and objectives: the wallet for example, would prefer you go to the cafe around the block, the one with the polythene and cardboard structure and the cook who doesn’t seem to be quite all there. However, Mr Tongue and Madam Ego have formed a coalition and decided that today is a java day, or at least an establishment of similar standards, pfffffffttt standards?? Standards shall fast today or eat crazy Gladys’ chapo dondo. It’s almost time: countdown begin. 10…9…8…computer shutdown…6…5…initiate lunch hour disappear sequence…3…start muscle movements…2…1 we have lift off. Your thrusters push you towards the door, with your tongue already warming up to the veto ruling made on the food matter. But before the light of freedom can bathe your skin the gates of Zion are blocked by a one man army made up of Mr Bossman; and he doesn’t look to happy.

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