Every day, I put on my vintage button down shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, and I’m out the door to the local mom and pop coffee shop. Of course, I don’t take my car (although it is electric); instead I decide to single-handedly save the planet by riding my bike. Upon entering the laptop-filled coffee joint, I pick up my usual iced-soy-misto with an extra ¼ shot of espresso and a touch of light foam which I had preordered on a handy start-up app for busy java consumers such as I. I may have a slight addiction to my daily cup of Joe, but heck — at least I’m supporting local business!
After seven minutes of intermittently sniffing my coffee while conversing with the barista about the ethics of Kombucha corporations, I head to the office, where I work as a socially conscious video game engineer for underprivileged African children. Those poor kids don’t even have access to substandard RPGs; I shed a tear thinking about this as I commence my long day of playing video games at my standing desk.
Noon approaches and my stomach lets me know that I am a bit peckish. I sulk for a moment, thinking of my meager breakfast of a vegan-gluten free-free range-non GMO-genderfluid-fair trade protein bar which I grabbed in a hurry from the organic grocer. I take the slide down to the kitchen (we are a strict elevator-free office; elevators are offensive to acrophobics and we pride ourselves on being an inclusive space) and make myself some avocado toast with a sizeable squirt of sriracha. Though I don’t like to use unnecessary food miles, when I do, I make sure to garnish the imported meal with my favourite Asian hot sauce from California.
I stand back at my desk for a few more hours to help the African children (but being a humanitarian is demanding work, so I take the occasional small talk break with my coworkers to converse about my favourite obscure bands). At five o’clock, I’m out the door and on the seat of my fixie. On the way home to my apartment, I avoid becoming roadkill numerous times; I could find a place farther from the hub of urban traffic for much cheaper, but what can I say? I’m just a natural-born city slicker.
At home, I sit at my second hand table listening to acid jazz records (vinyl is the only true way to experience music) and place my typewriter in front of me. I find the clanging of the old machine to be quite meditative, and it brings me peace as I chip away at my novel (you haven’t heard of my freelance young adult fiction work and you probably never will, but you won’t want to miss it).
After an hour or two, a knock on the door interrupts my fruitful creativity session — the foodora. I open the door and claim my Chinese food from the Buddhist restaurant down the street.
I sup and realize my fatigue from a long day of being a unique individual (while simultaneously being like every one of my peers). It’s tiring being cultured.
I hop into the shower and lather my chin in beard shampoo. After a few minutes of scrubbing, it’s out of the shower and into my nightgown. I contemplate why the nightgown has fallen out of favour with the majority of the population — but I can’t be bothered to care in all my coziness.
I count grass-fed sheep and tuck myself into bed; I can’t wait for another day of contributing to gentrification, enlarging my ego, and being a nuisance to everyone around me.