Is it just me or has life become a singular struggle to get from one 5PM clock strike, to the next one the following day?
No, it’s not quite five yet. Four thirty-two to be exact. As you can tell, I’m counting.
Weekends are the worst. Weekdays I’m regulated by the fact that I’m physically not in possession of an inebriation inducing intoxicant. I walk to and from work. When I arrive home—yup, at approximately 5:00:00 PM, I head straight for the bottle. Am I sick? Probably. Do I care? Fuck no.
So what? It’s the grind. The slog. The dirge that I march to for hours, days, years on end. It wears me out. A shot and a beer (a quality beer, mind you) and I’m fine. For an hour or two. And then the clock starts ticking again…
On the weekends, I force myself to hold the floodgates back until the appointed moment when the Fred Flintstone whistle would have blown, had this been a Monday, or a Friday. It’s the least I can do.
When is your five o’clock? Do you have one? What pleasure do you restrain from, building the anticipation until it’s just too much to take?
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
Although I don’t mind being at work (I’m here now!), and even love what I do some days, I still adore the 5:30 chime. By 6, if not sooner (I am only an 8-minute drive home), I see my golden dogs (always a treat) and open an ice cold beer (except most winter nights). Unlike you I appreciate the cheap stuff (Coor Light, almost exclusively) that goes down well on a 90-degree deck. Two or three of those each night during the week, a few more on my Thursdays off, a dozen on a Saturday night, and a few on Sunday afternoon after a few on Sunday morning down at the well (“church,” we call it). 🙂
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“If a chap can’t compose an epic poem while he’s weaving tapestry, he had better shut up, he’ll never do any good at all.” – William Morris
Shot and a beer, okay. Why? You walk home, air it out. Write the next scene of whatever in your head. The old world is behind you, vocational theater. Talk to the squirrels, talk to your feet. You don’t need to be numb to erase. Here’s the deal – when the red light goes on, you perform. When you’re done take off the mask, go about your business. Dread is in your head.
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For the longest time, I’ve rejected it. I take pride in coping with things on my own. But you know what? Last night, I decided to start the same ritual. Last week was tough. This one is shaping up to be miserable. I drive to/from work. My 5pm probably starts closer to 6.
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Sounds like you need a different job. But I know that maybe isn’t easy…
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Capitalism, for the proletariat, is unsustainable for just the reasons you posted. It wears you out and grinds you down. Even intellectual work like yours. Research Bezo’s ( I know you have) and how he works his employees to death. Soon, they’ll be spending billions to develop workers who can stay up all night working…while only half their brain sleeps!
Moohahahahaaahhaaa!
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Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong.
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