This feat is more complex than you might think.
Firstly, turn the key in your car door and open it, only to discover that less-fortunate humans have completely fucked the ignition in a slap-dash attempt to start the car with a chisel. Failing that, they have tried to remove the factory stereo and succeeded only in ripping it half out of the console. The plus side of this is that your personal belongings will not be supporting their drug habit.
Next, you’ll need to attempt to take public transport to work. You are aware of the fact that you can’t be late because your manager is a strange organism incapable of acknowledging rhyme or reason, no doubt due to a disconnected childhood, or from enduring painful torment on the school playground.
You’ll need a ticket substitute for the train. This sounds easy, but first you’ll need to find a ‘convenience’ store that sells the PT cards for 3 dollars something, and pay for credit on top of that.
Next, you’ll need to jump on the train to experience an initial feeling of discomfort, which will then be replaced by a niggle of concern… in your haste to board the vessel that almost left the platform without you, you question whether you ‘touched on’. Did the machine beep? You think so, ok grab a sea-
Ok, no seats, just human-beings, practicing rubber robots impressions; fingering their phone screens, dead-eyed and imagination-less.
Moving through the mindless, 4 of your manager’s old classmates step into your carriage. Robbed of emotion, but armed with devilish ESP, they find you, surround you like overweight hyenas, and answer the question that had irked you moments earlier; the machine had not beeped.
These beasts, specifically selected for their profession because they are devoid of happiness, empathy, and the ability to resist fatty foods, serve only one master; the God of neo-liberalism. This almighty being came to earth disguised as a good idea, started a national, if not semi-universal pyramid scheme, and fucked off with civilian money, leaving society scratching their heads and emptying their pockets for no apparent reason.
You’ll then step off the train, both emotionally heavier, and financially lighter than when you stepped on.
The pub where you work is swollen with footy fans, soccer fans, fans of digitally-influenced trends, broken ceiling fans, and cunts with empty heads and guts full of overpriced pale ale.
Find a locker in a staff room that looks like a cheap extension and smells like the shack on Mt Roadkill where the neglected grease trap takes its annual shit.
You take a lovely photo of yourself as you clock on, so the government knows what you look like and how much you earn. Then, tend to the unruly beasts at the bar, fuel their vomit, witness their intoxicated insecurities, and then clean up their vomit after they’ve left.
Clock off, with a less attractive head-shot. Walk to the station to discover that your PT card won’t scan on (because it was faulty all along), and walk home to find your car gone…
Open your front door, walk into the kitchen, and make a perfect cup of tea.