My Daily Routine

My mornings always start the same. I awake in my clean and comfortable king-size bed, still dazed by the previous night’s sleep, cramped and stiff from the hours of stillness, and I wonder. I wonder not what lies in the day ahead, not what to make for breakfast, put on for work or how I’ll stumble to the bathroom in this weary state. No. In the mornings, I think ahead, far ahead. Far ahead to a time where life is simpler. We all fret about the future. Will I be rich? Will I be married with kids? Will I be sober? All questions worth asking, though questions not made for a Monday morning comedown.

That’s where I’m at these days. You can make your assumptions about a 27-year-old who spends his waking moments in the comforting arms of a baggie, but that doesn’t even scratch the surface. Below the surface, I’m driven, ambitious, charming and socially adept, though it’s all wrapped up in a polar exterior that screams laziness, procrastination and a deep-bedded sense of self-pity. The law of attraction states that by visualizing the positives, you attract the positives. I try my hardest to live by that mantra but hey, we all have our limitations.

Last night was what can only be described as a right off. My friends would likely say I’d “Gone west”, a phrase used countless times to describe a man past the point of no return. My mornings always start the same, and my nights generally follow the same trend too. It seems people these days supplement their mundane lives with intoxicated exploits at the end of a tedious work week, manifesting in the form of a bar crawl through whatever city they call home. That’s what I do. My home is a city well-tailored to such endeavours - a city of flashing lights, cheap drinks, vodka - a paradise, it seems, for a man like myself.

But I’ve hit a routine, and one that does little to empower, inspire or entertain me. I wake in the morning. I eat my porridge. I shower. I get dressed. I catch the bus. I arrive at work. I spend the next 8 hours counting down the seconds. For the last 4 years, I’ve worked a string of office jobs, sitting at a desk for the day and feeling my energy drain with every passing second. My current role, in the office of a notable UK bank, is nothing different. After years of acting school, months of intensive training and a seemingly endless string of second-rate auditions, the culmination of such hard work left me in the firm grip of an IT professional. You never hear about those failed actors because it’s not what people want to hear. This is what mundane life feels like, and the days simply melt together.

This week has been worse than usual, to the point where my restless nights are consumed with images of my manager making his sleazy advances on the fresh out of University finance assistant. That girl, Kayley, acts oblivious to the fact her short-cut dress attracts attention from all around and proceeds to tell me “what a nice boss Carl is” once he grows tired of the repeated sexual advances. That’s the type of shit you see in offices these days. I’ve grown accustomed to sulking quietly in the corner, laying low to avoid work, and allowing myself to watch the rest of the office the way an American tourist watches monkeys on safari. I guess they’re not that different really, minus the shit throwing and “literal” arse licking.

So here I lie in bed, still wrapped up nice and warm, half drank pint of water on the side and a suspicious stain splattered down my carpet. The time edges closer to 08:30, my defined wakeup time, and I anticipate my 09:00 start at work. I’m an expert at cutting it fine. The remnants from last night’s substances circulate through my veins, keeping my mood in toe. My clothes are neatly laid out from my responsible prep the night before and the remaining morning activities roll on like a well-oiled machine. The next thing I know, I’m out of the house to do it all again.

A day in the life, eh?