The Grind.

Consider this. You wake up as soon as the clock hits your consciousness. You try to hit the snooze button and almost fell off bed doing so. You try to ignore it. Finally, annoyed by the incessant “beep-beep-beep”, you grumble, you wake up, stuff the clock under your pillow, hit the shower, curse the water for not being hot enough and try to finish your bath in 15 minutes because you are God-freaking-late.

You rush out of your house, forgot to kiss your your significant other (or your family), argue with yourself if you’re going to take the cab, then remembered you barely had money for lunch so you take public transpo. You squeeze your butt on the already crammed jeepney, wishing you chose another one but then again you remembered that you’re late so you grin and bear it, and try not to inhale the armpit of the guy next to you. You wanted to scream but then you remember that someone might film it and upload it on YouTube. You’d rather kill yourself that gain nationwide notoriety.

You arrive at work to find your in-tray covered by documents — all needing your attention. The boss has left 20 messages in your inbox, all seemed gibberish except for the fact that all had the word “URGENT” at the end of the sentence. You try to send your boss hate messages using your brain, wishing, hoping he’ll get a sudden case of diarrhea and needed to go home. The monotony is killing you, the paper work you can do in your sleep and all you wanted is to submit your 30-days notice and go home. Then, you think about your addiction to traveling and that the money you earn being a corporate tool is also the same money that you pay for the plane tickets, the hotel reservations, the new clothes and the shoes. So, you reach for the first one on the pile, grit your teeth and go through the motions.

Funny how it goes — in a company that encourages individuality, you are encouraged to conform. They ask you to tone down the dyed hair, ask you to dress more “corporate” — whatever the eff it means, and ask you to remove the polka dot nail art which you studiously applied the night before. It was funny, the first few months but the act got old even before your first anniversary at work. Now all you wanted is to dye your hair bright pink and be done with it. You eat your lunch, count your calories and stuff a few candies down your throat.

The clock hits five. You sense and smell freedom — so you grab your bag and bolt out the door even before the boss piles another batch of documents. You head for the road, wish you get better transpo and arrive to an empty house.

You are tired. You just wanted to sleep. You remove the clock under the bed, set it at a time you don’t even follow and shut your eye. It’s not a happy day, but you’re still alive, so you’re thankful. Welcome to the Grind.

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