100 little bullshit things a day
you’re writing this at the office, because why not. you spend more than eight hours a day here - standing, sitting, cantering like a horse that doesn’t know it wants to gallop.
20 taps at the door from people asking you questions. inane questions, important questions - mostly inane. you turn off your music, respond with a very practiced patience, but your rhythm is gone - each of them, your current purpose and the chilled melody.
15 emails sent - all with ‘thanks’, ‘best’, ‘here’s your validation because you’re insecure or bureaucratic or bored.’ you make a face at the screen and go ‘bleeeeh’ with each forced platitude.
10 phone calls received. you answer politely, go back to the task you were working on - you realize you forgot what it was - start a new one.
5 meetings of all sizes. you don’t even want to talk about those - your mind wandering, spinning pen between your fingers, the fake ‘shoot yourself’ gesture as you leave.
1 meaningful email or report written. the highlight of your day, a day eclipsed by the restraints of company jargon. you add some weird fact just to brighten what is clearly darkness descended on imagination.
and all the other things in the day - talking to customers, listening to complaints, trips to the kitchen to get out of the glary white office.
your motivation, a little picture hanging from your monitor - non multa, sed multum - not a lot, but much - is now hidden behind the desk phone. you don’t remember when that happened.
you didn’t even notice until the phrase popped up in your head.
you come home in the early evening. your mind and body restless from doing 100 bullshit things a day. you either do another 20 things or crash on the couch. repeat tomorrow please.