Your Own Professional Jesus
The iPhone's alarm is eternal. Without your interference, billions of years from now, your phone will be annoying the last living cockroaches as the Earth spirals into the sun's inferno.
You struggle to remember this as Siri sings to you from across the room. Reality dawns upon you that today is one of those days that you have to go to a place to do some things for at least 8 hours so someone will pay you some money. As you kick off your blankets and sit up, a night of poor decisions makes itself emphatically known.
Your thoughts drift from throbbing temples, to a stuffy nose, to a dry tongue soured with the taste of cigarettes. You're not a smoker, so last night must've been a doozy. For the next few minutes, your brain stem runs the show. One foot in front of the other as you plod toward the shower. The temperature doesn't matter unless it h- oh sh*t it's burning your skin off now it's freezing now it's ok so you just stand there until everything else is ok.
It's not OK! There was a reason sober-you set that alarm! Meeting! 8am meeting!
100,000 years ago your ancestors awoke to a savage beast ready to reclaim its cave. Natural selection equipped them not only with the planet's most sophisticated animal brain, but with millions of years of accrued survival instinct. Adrenaline electrified their existence and with savage brutality they attacked the beast and asserted their dominion.
100,000 years later you call upon these same forces to dress yourself and dash out the door to work.
The cacophony of the city is an odious blur. Without coffee your brain understands the urban chaos as well as a deer understands an incoming F-150.
Coffee!
As you racewalk to your meeting, a breakfast cart diverts your attention. Part of you remembers that nothing good comes from the breakfast carts (halal carts are a different story), but another part yearns for hot liquid caffeine. Coffee instructions are conveyed, misinterpreted, argued, and then tolerated. The food cart has borrowed Dunkin' Donuts' trademark coffee beverage, The Hot Sugary Beige Milk Slurry.
The elevator doors ding close, and you rehearse your best MTA alibi. As you enter the conference room, you notice that half the attendees are not yet present, and place the husk of your garbage existence on an office chair with uneven armrests.
As you wait for the others to arrive, memories, feelings, and regrets begin simmering. They're soon at a rolling bubble as your aching head, feeble body, and angrily empty stomach are collectively demanding that you make better life decisions. The horrifying reality that you're going to be dealing with this hangover for the full day begins to sink in.
Outside you stay cool, politely smiling and greeting those who beep into the conference call. On the inside, you've now discovered religion. There is a Hell and you've got one foot into it. The hangover god is an angry god and you'll do anything to atone. Heaven is real and it's full of Pedialyte, Aspirin, and naps. You can no longer tell if you're drifting toward the light or just staring at a faux-daylight fluorescent bulb.
Illuminated from behind a glowing figure approaches you. You can't initially comprehend what he says, but it is beautiful. The words roll over, around, and within you, filling you with sublime warmth and comfort. It's a question, and you know the answer is a resounding yes. As he hands you an object that shines, shrouded in silver, you realize that he has spoken the eleven most beautiful words in the English language. These eleven words will deliver you to professional salvation.
"Hey, I got an extra breakfast sandwich. Do you want it?"