Double Shots and Double Standards

He walked in like he fucking owned the place. He didn't, of course. But he'd spent enough in here to give it thought. Maybe he had earned a stock option. His clothes were unkempt. His whiskey neat.

He couldn't count the nights he'd wasted, sitting on this same stool getting wasted. It's easy to get lost in a bottle and thoughts. But there's no way to find yourself without first getting lost. Not to say he was lost. He just felt lost. Lost in routine. A more realistic adaptation of the American Dream.

He thought of another life, a different life. Another time, a different time. He sipped his whiskey. It was neat. His thoughts were blurred. He saw the answer in the bottom of the glass, but never found it. He only found himself lost once again. Lost in the glow of neon lights, lost in another of those sleepless nights.

He was a victim of the cultural norm.

Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. That's why his whiskey was neat.

The plot never changed, each M. Night he wept.

~


He walked in like the fucking place owned him. It did, of course. He'd spent enough hours in here to give it no thought. He sure as fuck hadn't earned a stock option. His clothes were preppy. He didn't make enough to justify keeping his desk neat.

The timeclock, the man, could count the days he'd wasted. Furthering his career, shortening his life. He couldn't help but get lost in those 40 hours. It's easy to miss a deadline. He didn't always miss. It just felt like it. Missed deadlines, missed opportunities. Missed was the routine, a realistic adaptation of the American Dream.

He thought of another life, a different life. Another time, a different time. He tapped away on that keyboard. His words per minute were high. His desk still not neat. No spreadsheet held the answer, but he kept looking. He only found himself lost once again. Lost in the glow of the monitor, lost in another of those stress-filled nights.

He was a victim of corporate America.

Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. That's why his desk wasn't neat.

The plot never changed, each M. Night he wept.