Tuesday morning
I abruptly stir out my slumber to a faintly obnoxious alarm; my tank top and boxers are drenched in sweat. Great, I’m late for work…again. I couldn’t wake up on time thanks to the comatose side effect of Seroquel and my many careless snooze attempts. I rush to the laundry room to retrieve my clothes from the dryer. I peel off the damp clothes tightly stuck to my body and pull an oversized sweatshirt and pajama pants over my goosebumps. I stumble to my desk and clock in for my minimum wage administrative job. The one I’m forced to work in order to pseudo-ensure my survival in this beloved late stage capitalist nation. After clocking in, I rush back upstairs to grab the things that guarantee my mental stability: vyvanse, iPad, vape, lip balm, and a water bottle. I lazily pop the capsule of joy into my mouth and throw it back with some water as I descend down the stairs. I put my belongings down and set my status as available. One second later, I take one of the many kinds of calls that I would have to endure today; an angry patient calling to move their appointment to a sooner available date. Nothing im not used to. People really overestimate the schedule availability of doctors for a multimillion dollar institution catering to an overabundance of sick patients. The darker truth is that if the patient doesn’t possess notoriety or thousands of dollars to donate to said institution, they are considered “low priority”and will always be secondary to the bourgeoisie regardless of their medical urgency. After 7 minutes and 26 seconds of a shamelessly entitled woman telling me how to do my job, the call ends. At last, I can induce my natural state of being; intoxicated. I slip on an oversized pair of gray slides and open the patio door. I am eagerly greeted by a gust of crisp air and the smell of dew. I watch the ducks stretch and groom themselves while I settle into my most elated state. I take one last tearful look at the creek before being pulled back inside by the invisible hand. I sway back to my desk with a softer gait and newfound motivation. I initiate a blissful bone cracking session and throw my hair into a messy bun; signaling to my physical body that it’s time to lock in. I take a look at the ungodly bags underneath my eyes and dried drool in the corner of my mouth. I stretch my face and splash it with water in an attempt to rid my foggy brain of the sleep inertia. I contemplate brushing my teeth, but the queue is teeming with incoming calls and I’m already on thin ice with my supervisors. I decide against it for now and make an internal note to recuse myself about an hour into my shift to take care of my hygiene. “The American Dream”, they call it. But what’s dreamy about having to prioritize your obligatory occupation over your wellbeing out of fear and guilt? I scoff and take a deep breath as i prepare to be swallowed whole by the relentless nature of The American Dream. “Thank you for calling ____, this is ___ . How can I help you?”
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