A day in the life

here's basically the stuff I did today

I slept poorly. Been sleeping poorly these last couple of days. I wake up every couple of hours, worried that I’ve overslept, because it feels like I’ve slept 10 hours in the span of one. I don’t remember what exactly I was dreaming about. I recorded voice memos about it. I don’t want to listen to them.

Something about my ex girlfriends, being visited by the ghosts of girlfriends past, christmas carol situation. Nightmare before bitches.

Wake up, make a pot of coffee, walk to work. I’m working on a Sunday. I work as much temp work as I can get my hands on, because I’ve decided to stop just trying to get away with subsistence level income, make a bit of money, and then finally move the fuck out of the city. I’ve had enough. I had enough of it years ago. Just like monetizing my internet presence, this is all shit I should have done years ago.

I think quitting nicotine was the trigger. If you change one thing in your life it’s easier to change everything about your life. Anyways I’m walking to work, because it’s close by. Takes maybe 20 minutes. I like that. Ideal. I don’t like driving. I think any kind of driving to work is wrong. Not Lindy. I don’t like driving in general. For obvious reasons, car accident >im scared lmao, etc. but I also just think that in an ideal world, anywhere you can’t walk to is a place you have no business going. Maybe accounting for horses, but you have to own a horse then for that to count.

I walk through a park on the way, it’s very nice. This morning I look at the time and I figure yeah I got a couple minutes to kill, just sort of enjoy the scenery a bit.

Meanwhile I’m fuming, thinking about my bad dreams, feeling like I don’t deserve to be alive. Talk a bit to myself about some kind of philosophy thing, language thing. Some kind of thing I would be tweeting about presumably.

Get to work early, we’re past the honeymoon faze and I’ve already made a decent impression on the nice polish man I work for. Polish or Swedish or something, I can’t tell. I don’t really care. I have a sense that he appreciates that, that I don’t care. I often don’t understand what he’s saying and ask him to repeat himself, but I have a sense that he appreciates that I don’t care too much about it and worry about being rude or racist or whatever. What he doesn’t know is, I secretly worry about being too bad at understanding other people. My one secret trick to being liked by minories.

Anyways, we’re past the honeymoon faze so I don’t have to show how much I love to work there happy for the opportunity boss just happy to be here boss can’t wait to get cracking, so I sit outside and have a cup of coffee until the exact moment I’m legally obliged to work. Then I work.

The checking-in surveillance system app I use to log my hours doesn’t work. I log in 10 minutes too late. This annoys me tremendously.

Busy day, lots to do. I like this place because I work alone and have my own little space I’m in charge of, and it’s all very loud and noisy from machinery, and it drowns out the little radio that someone else is listening to, which is, thank God, just playing some kind of ”classic rock” station.

We have dinner, I talk to the nice polish man I work for. Polish or Swedish or whatever. Something. I thought he was polish for the longest time but I’ve been thinking his accent might not be an accent, maybe he’s just talking Swedish. In a kind of rural accent or something. I don’t know.

He asks me what I do when I’m not here. I tell him I’m trying to get the cash to get out of town. ”Isn’t as fun living in the big city as it was when I was ten years younger you know”. He laughs. I don’t tell him about the sobriety, I don’t tell him about the drugs and the crime and the being an intellectual and the being a poet/performing artist/gay. I don’t tell him about the little cross I wear underneath layers of protective clothes that it’s way way way too hot for. I don’t tell him about being the greatest armchair psychologist on the alt right.

So what else do I do, he asks. I tell him I write a sex pervert blog on the internet for money. And I play the piano.

He lives a bit out of town. Nice and quiet. I say something about, yes exactly. that’s why I need to get out. It’s too noisy everywhere. Too damn loud, retarded disgusting noise, constant muzak everywhere people willingly put on to prevent themselves from thinking, from feeling. I get too excited about it. I reveal my power level. Something about the tone of my voice, I let him see something honest of myself for a split second and it makes me feel scared when I realise.

He tells me he thinks Dasein is right and I should try to write more about Things and less about People and Social Relationships. He tells me I should try to glorify God in every action I take and that this includes writing.

He doesn’t, but I think that sentence in my head. Also that didn’t happen today, that was lunch yesterday. Today schedules worked out differently and I ate by myself. I’m collecting various exciting memories into a literary day of destiny, a special magical day of great significance, through the magic of literature.

I lied again, it’s just that one thing. I just wanted to included that one thing. I don’t know why I would like about it. I think it’s supposed to be a joke.

I eat lunch outside in the sun, then have the last cup of coffee I prepared at home. I talk to myself on my phone, make little voice memos. I tell myself: Ideally, I get home, I call my dad to hear how things are going with my uncle, then take maybe twenty minutes of concentrated resting, then spend the rest of the way finally working on my serious writing, the politics and the philosophy and the Big Important Unique Perspective I Have On Things That People Can Benefit From Or Something, Presumably.

Getting back to work I make some rudimentary mistake. Puts me 10 minutes behind schedule. I feel bad about it, on the off chance that someone else is going to have to wait on me. I think about this intensely – why does this make me feel bad? I think about it intensely. I am deeply upset. I care a lot. The answer I arrive at is, I don’t like to be responsible for someone else having to wait. Meanwhile no one gives a shit and it impacts no one, and I finish the days work a half an hour early anyway.

I catch a butterfly that wondered in in my hands, and let it out.

After work I sit for a bit killing time, to cheat on the surveillance app thing. No incentive to be efficient – if you work faster, then you get paid less. Unless you just spend the leftover time sitting around, waiting to clock out. Great system. Very honourable. Good way to live. Good way to design a system. Great app based world we’re living in.

I read a couple of new comments on my pervert sex blog to pass the time. One is immense personal praise, that I personally have worth and value, and that I helping him personally, on a personal level, with some very personal stuff. It makes me feel very alienated. I’m happy he’s better, but I feel no connection to it. I can’t take the compliment.

Walking home, I do math in my head for how much money I have and how much money I need. My feet are tired. I get upset about philosophy and meaning. I tell myself, I have to post every day. I should post every day. Train yourself until you can post long form writing every day. I text my dad instead of calling. Things are going good. Everything went way better than anyone had dared hope. A god damn little miracle.

I talk very shortly with my neighbour, a young woman. She’s being condescending to me. I’m too tired to get my normal amounts of upset about it. She’s fitness-testing me, every question is some kind of sex measurement about my money or my workout ruitine. I find it demeaning and irritating, as I have decided that I never want to fuck her, making the whole thing moot.

I sit down and my feet hurt so much that I can’t think. I find this funny. Can’t focus. can’t really do anything except just sit, with my feet up, and rest my feet.