Fiction: A Day in the Life of a Silicon Valley Professional (Male, Age 40)

I get up in the morning in my three-bedroom bachelor pad and clean up the newspapers my dog has shit on overnight.  I keep him inside when I go to sleep for security purposes.  The smell doesn't bother me. 

I usually have a quick breakfast: either coffee or a packet of energy goo, which is mostly chemicals, but isn't everything when you break it down?  I don't believe in that stuff about breakfast being the most important meal of the day; besides, cutting back at breakfast has helped me lose some weight over the last four months (down 8 pounds to 245) and it allows me to eat a larger lunch and dinner, which is where I allot my protein, fats, and sugars.

I jump in the shower, scrub down, and jump out.  I don't like to be in the shower for long, as I have a tendency to fantasize, usually about the Eastern European ladies who clean the office.  I only shave once a week, as I'm sort of prepubescently hairless.  There's a pile of shirts on the floor, and I grab whatever clean-looking pants I have, and make sure all my electronics are charged and on my belt before I leave the house.  In the cooler months, I also wear an old plaid-lined Eddie Bauer parka that still has ski lift tickets on it from my high school days.

Most people hate the commute, but I love it, especially now that I have my new Gigantic Car.  I leased it for two years, during which time I will spend about 66% of the cost of the car's purchase price.  I live alone and don't have a lot of friends, so the only people who really know about the car are my co-workers, but they love hearing me talk about it.  The car needs a lot of dealer fixes and utilizes gas in a way that makes Congress look efficient, but I don't mind because it's so big and expensive - and because the model number alone is so meaningful to so many of my peers.  Plus it makes my penis feel larger.

By the time I get to work, I've already planned one or two snappy things to say to my co-workers.  Yesterday it was raining, so I thought if someone said anything about the rain, I'd respond with, "It's wetter out there than a Vegas whore" or something.  Something about a prostitute's vagina, anyway.  But when I said it, I think it came out wrong because it didn't get the laughs I thought it would.  (I'll have to work on my delivery.  At night, I go over improv technique before I hit the sack.  It's very free-form and off-the-cuff, but it helps me with confidence as far as speaking in meetings and giving presentations goes.  I'll look at some magazine article headline and just riff for awhile.)

My boss does certain things to me throughout the day that cause me discomfort, and that I'm unable to express for fear of reprisal or falling into even further disfavor.  So instead of standing up for myself and either owning my mistakes or defending my actions, I pass off my fears and pressures to my direct reports or junior colleagues, lambasting them in front of other employees, sending brusque e-mails, or simply ignoring them for long periods of time.  This makes my penis feel bigger and enables me to feel something like the thrills my ancestors must have felt while chopping wood, fording rivers, or slaying their enemies.

Lunchtime is a special time of day because I enjoy shoving large amounts of bad, bad food into my mouth while seeming extremely important.  There's a direct relationship between my need to appear busy with deadly important work and the vastness of the food I shovel down my throat and/or the intensity with which such shovelings are accomplished.  The worse I feel about myself, the more furiously I review paperwork, sign things, and type on my laptop, and the more heedless I am of my physical ability to consume unconscionably large quantities of processed glop.  I'm so effective at portraying an extremely busy man at lunchtime, that I generally eat alone.

By the end of the workday, I have usually changed my shirt twice and get busy attuning my ears to try to catch wind of rumors of after-work bar visits and other extra-curricular activities.  If I'm lucky, I'm able to ingratiate myself in some conversation about after-hours social gatherings or happy hours, and glean an invite here and there.  That probably happens about once every other month, and I look forward to such outings.  The average night, however, finds me either back at home or hanging out in a Starbucks near the local junior college, checking out the latest on Hulu and eyeing girls far too young for me but who could very conceivably become interested given my youthful look (my secret: black hair dye and vests!).  Occasionally when I catch the eye of a lady, I fleetingly feel as if I have a very large penis, but usually they're looking behind me at a movie poster or at something in the middle distance or trying to figure out where the napkins are.

Then I go home and plug in all my electronics so they'll be ready in the morning when I get up and check my e-mail and social networking sites.  I'll usually post thoughts from the evening before powering them down ("Good turkey club tonight at Togo's;" "Funny how people keep mistaking me for Alfonso Ribeiro in my new sunglasses;" "Anyone know the best way to remove necrotized bedsores?") and then practice improv, thinking of Howie Mandel and Steve Harvey and all the greats.  Then I get cleaned up and masturbate furiously (and in vain) before falling asleep and dreaming about my dog licking mayonnaise off the crotch of my pants while I present a hilarious PowerPoint on product development to a packed room.

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