That’s life

Imagine this. It’s a weekday. You get up at 6am and by the time you’re ready to leave your home it’s 6:45am. You spend an hour commuting to work on underground trains that only move when enough energy has been harvested from the groans of the drained commuters on board. A woman with crepe-paper skin puts makeup on opposite you and a slimeball in a suit sits next to her. You spend all the sunlit hours of the day in a dank, dark, glass-walled office that’s ridden with human vermin and viruses. It’s an office with people sucking up to imaginary titles and imaginary prestige. You spend days on end around those who crudely flaunt their dumb worship of money. The AC is giving you face volcanoes and the dryness of the air only heightens the pungency of your eternal rancid coffee breath. You spend £15 on lunch only for you to dine al desko. At 4pm you go out for a coffee, and on arriving back at your desk you exclaim to your greasy colleagues through your equally greasy teeth that “This is my third coffee of the day!”. Your regular coffee intake is the only thing that keeps your bowels regular. The toilets on each floor of your office resemble the inside of your microwave after one of your meals-for-one has exploded but you still use them anyway. After work, you go for drinks and have a serious natter with people about the wonders of the man-made constructs of the world all while forgetting that we are all going to die eventually and nothing really matters. Not your suit, not your tie, not your life.

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