First of all: Take the poll on archetypes. It’s a GOOD time.
Now of all: My days.
My days are filled with screaming shit. In a most literal and figurative sense. My typical morning starts at 7am with my alarm screaming at me to rise and … well shine is never a good word to describe what I do. After slipping my H2$ hoodie over my naked torso and grabbing whatever pair of pants was discarded closest to my bed, I scramble out the door, one eye half closed the other twitching with frustration at my body’s decision to exert effort. My body then realizes that I have to take a shit, but cannot complete that task until I have taken care of my horses. My dog stalks me out the door hoping that somehow my sudden movement involves discarded scraps of food magically appearing in my wake. She quickly realizes that I will not be flanked by leftover turkey and stale bread and she contents herself with digging up and eating the buried treasure that is cat-shit. My horses then take the lead from my alarm clock and scream at me as I attempt to quickly toss together many scoops from many buckets. Their screams are accentuated by plops of shit coming from their anuses into their stalls. Just mocking the dance I’m doing to keep my sphincter closed. After feeding the horses and shoveling piles of shit into a wheelbarrow, I go back down to the house to hear the screams of my dog and cats as they demand their food as well.
I wait 20 minutes and then have to spray the horses with bugspray while they shit. I’m pretty sure they save all their waste for times when I’m around just to fuck with me.
Next is the coffee orders. Since it has been raining for two weeks straight here in Maine, I have been unable to get internet at home. Because I live in weird steampunkesque amalgamation of 21st century and the stone age where internet goes out when it rains, our i-phones need the necessary smoke signal application in order to communicate, and once we invent the wheel we’ll post the instructions immediately on wikipedia. This lack of modern communication via internet means that I have to drive 20 minutes into “town” in order to spend 2 hours writing up excel sheets of who order what coffee because the one person my parents hired is unable to keep numbers straight in his head.
Then I drive to the other “town” stopping on my way to feed the horse lunch and clean up a couple more piles of shit that he left for me as a token of his appreciation for all my hard work. At the other town I sit in a 3 foot by 10 foot office with two people that both weigh more than twice my weight. (That’s not saying much, but they are both big people) There I punch in mind numbing data for four hours before being released to go, once again, to clean up shit and feed animals.
I’m met with the same screaming enthusiasm that I was met with in the morning except instead of being unable to form words because even the sun wasn’t used to itself being up yet, I am now able vent my frustrations through a series of swears. Luckily I live hundreds of miles from civilization so no one hears my screams for someone to help me get through the day without murdering the person I love most in the world: Me.
After this journey into the animal kingdom of shit, I hop back into my subaru and drive back into town to wait tables at an improv club and deal with customers who don’t understand what improv is, what dessert entails, or how humans are supposed to act. By midnight I’m home and meet with people a generation younger than me to work on a sketch show where I am their “peer.”
I then go to sleep for four hours dreaming of screaming shit that makes me feel like an old man wasting his life with ignorant tourists in a tiny office during an industrial/technological revolution.
It is NOT a GOOD time. Not like my archetype poll.
I miss the days where I would wake up when the sunlight got too unbearable to sleep through and take a book over to the Whole Foods bathroom where I would sit on their toilet until a poop forced itself out of my body and then stare at my computer screen until I fell asleep. Those were the good old days. Sometimes I miss Minnesota.