Diaries of an overworked, underslept, performatively present zombie of a corporate intern
At 5:15a.m., her third alarm begins blaring out the lyrics of “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake. A pale and sleep-deprived girl rises, dizzy and disoriented. She reaches for her phone, but only finds her charger. In a panic, she mindlessly paws around until she finds it tangled in her sheets. She forces herself out of bed and stumbles towards the bedroom door only to trip and fall on her last remaining claw clip, now snapped in three pieces.
She reaches for the light switch, foolishly believing the yellow fluorescent lights will help her fatigued state. (They did not). In the bathroom, she washes her face, and with remnants of cleanser still in her eyes, she blindly feels around for a towel. Growing impatient, she opens her eyes for a split second and the cleanser drips into her eyes. temporarily burning. The pain subsides and she returns to her room to do her makeup.
Her routine goes as usual until she digs around for her concealer with no success. She looks around the rest of her desk and averts her gaze to the floor where it lies cracked open and spilled out. In a huff, she moves on to what she can do. After only slightly pinching herself with the eyelash curler, she starts to apply her mascara. The first eye comes out a little clumpy, but whatever, who is she trying to impress anyways? She switches the mascara to her left hand and begins applying it. However, apparently the motor skills of her non-dominant hand are non-existent, because she manages to poke herself in the eye and get mascara all over her. She salvages what is left of her makeup and begins to look for an outfit.
Trudging downstairs, she looks for a sweater because, of course, the office air conditioning is always on full blast. Unfortunately, she finds all her cardigans still wet from the washing machine the night prior. Sweaterless and on a mission, she marches into her mother’s closet to look for anything she could borrow. Her search for a sweater was successful. However, the monstrosity was pumpkin orange, and hung so low it went past her knees. With no more appealing alternative, she slid the sweater on, shoulders slumped in defeat.
These inconveniences, combined with her hunger, have now left her hangry. She pours a bowl of cereal, but of course when she goes to get the milk it’s expired. Hanger unquenched, she drags herself to the car a few minutes later than usual.
The drive is peaceful, besides some heavy construction holding up traffic. Matching her typical routine, she turns into the shopping complex where her favourite coffee shop is. On autopilot, she hits her turn signal, ready to pull into the drive-thru. Dwelling on the morning she’s had, she almost misses the big neon orange cone dead in front of her and the flimsy paper sign reading “CLOSED FOR CLEANING.”
Already late and on the verge of tears, she gets to the office. While fishing out her keycard to get into the building, a line forms behind her. An audience watches as she struggles, but eventually pulls out her card. She rushes to her cubicle, muttering a quick “good morning” to her boss as she passes. She powers on her monitors and mistypes her password five times before successfully signing in. Ready to start her workday, she searches for a podcast to listen to, then digs in her bag for her headphones. Popping open the case, an all-consuming dread washes over her as the empty case stares back at her, and it’s only 7:30a.m.