At 6:30 am, you wake up to a hum of static from your radio alarm clock. Possibly ten, for five seconds, you’re content. Then you remember you don’t work for a tech company.
In the shower, you handle the first chore of the day. So it takes a while neither of you're into it, but it releases its pittance. You then bathe hair and your body.
Next door, a toddler is screaming. Not a cry of pain, just a high-pitched, pulsing yelp designed to analyze his parents’ limits. You can hear them start to claim as you tie your shoelaces. As far as you know, neither of them work for a tech firm. When you were both taking the bins out, you met the man once. His name was… Keith? He looked like he went to the gym. Your routes haven’t crossed since.
You catch a bus, the sort of bus on which all individuals who don’t work for tech firms are allowed. Many of them are mad, some are likely equipped, so you avoid eye contact. The bus is rammed, driving one to squeeze against a man who mumbles to himself. He grinds with each jerk of the bus against you, but that’s good, so long as he doesn’t start speaking to you. You turn Drake in your Beats cans up. You purchased his CD at the supermarket then ripped it on your HP notebook and transferred the songs to your Samsung Galaxy S6, which required a good part of Sunday day. You’re not great with computers.
After the bus, you catch the subway, and thirty minutes later you emerge near an industrial park. You power-walk against the traffic that is shrieking, limbs flailing of auto fumes.
You've got four Java throughout the morning — one every hour — all from the machine in the kitchen hub. Rumour has it the bags of coffee beans provided by your company cost 9 pence per kilo, which sounds steep considering the quality of the resultant beverage.
You spend 45 minutes eating while watching Epic Fail videos. Your mind depletes, your bowel enlarges; you’re not aware of the former and just vaguely of the latter.
Midafternoon, you’re fending off an attack of microsleep when Stephanie appears at your desk. You perk up forthwith. You part your legs a little about how men spread to claim their land because of that article you read and straighten your back. Stephanie and it ’s ten years younger and her first job, respectively but she’s already a manager. Also, she smells of apricots and ’s lovely and bright; her next job will undoubtedly be at a technology firm. She tells you something, but you don’t listen, because you’re striving hard to lift yourself to her plane of existence, which doesn’t come. She stops talking and you realize it’s your turn, so you nod and together a few haphazard, job-related words. Stephanie smiles, because she’s sort, and you experience a minute of bliss, then she leaves. You rush to the lavatories.
At home in the evening, you eat a stirfry. You overcook it, so it’s not the energetic feast of Asian flavors you imagined, just a dense mass of noodles and wilted vegetables sitting like a small turtle. You watch four episodes of Two And A Half Men and allow one more bottle of Stella to yourself than customary.
You climb into bed. Lying in the dark, you hear a distant siren, and you cry because you miss your ex-girlfriend. In hindsight, leaving her wasn’t a fantastic move; you’re not totally sure why you did it, but it had something related to your aspiration to be a musician.
When your tears have dried, and your cheeks are crusted with salt, you browse Facebook on your Samsung Galaxy S6 and learn that your old flatmate has sold his site for a small fortune. You determine to educate yourself to code, tomorrow. You fantasize about selling your website and posting about it on Facebook. You picture the responses that are awed from your 79 buddies. That would reveal them. But it’s a bitter dream, tainted by the conviction you’ll never be hip, smart or handsome enough to work for a technology company.
It’s awesome. You’re free, and you’ve never been happier.
Each morning, you awaken, and you can’t wait to ride your motorbike, but five seconds after you remember you don’t have a motorbike. You are soothed by your radio alarm clock.