A Normal Day in Advanced Civilization

(Or: How to Lose Your Mind Before Dinner)

5:12 AM

A normal day. The youngest one wakes up. Why? Honestly, no one knows. There’s no alarm set, no noise outside, no reason rooted in logic or nature, he just… woke up. Fully alert. Ready to ask questions about life and waffles. His internal clock seems powered by cruelty and chaos, and probably some strange moon cycle no one warned you about.

You try to explain that it’s still dark outside, that humans are diurnal creatures, that “we sleep at night” - but he laughs in your face, like you’re the village idiot. You whisper “please go back to sleep” like it’s a spell that might work if said with enough desperation. It doesn’t.

So you get up. Because that’s what we do now. We get up, even when there’s no fuel left in the tank. You pour cereal with one hand and hold your collapsing sense of self with the other, and while the fridge hums like a distant threat, you try to convince yourself that this is normal. This is fine. This is what life looks like. You don’t believe a word of it but you say it anyway, because what’s the alternative?

6:45 AM

You really, truly want to use the bathroom. Not for fun, not for some extended spa-like experience just for a quick, basic biological reset before entering the battlefield of the day.

But the bathroom is locked. Your teenage daughter has transformed it into her private styling chamber, a holy temple of mascara, face mists, straighteners, and silent judgment. You knock once, politely. Nothing. You knock again, a little more pointed and are met with a guttural sound that might be “I’m busy” or maybe just a low-level demon scream. You don’t ask.

Eventually, you give up. You chew a half-dried piece of gum you found in yesterday’s coat pocket, splash cold water from the kitchen tap onto your face, while trying not to look directly at the dishes and call it self-care. You feel weirdly proud of your flexibility. You didn’t lose it. You adapted. You’re basically a highly evolved organism at this point.

7:25 AM

You whisper to yourself that you’ll just go to the bathroom on the train. It’ll be fine. There’s always a toilet, right?

Then the doors open and the myth explodes in your face. The train is packed. No – beyond packed. There’s no standing room, just human layering. You find yourself somewhere between a teenager flossing aggressively in the window reflection and a woman brushing her hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial, all while balanced on someone’s forgotten duffel bag.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You can’t even imagine reaching the bathroom, let alone entering it. You hold it in - not just your bladder, but your sanity, your last remaining hope that this day might still go according to plan.

Meanwhile, someone’s filming a TikTok next to you. Four takes. Three angles. Zero shame.

The loudspeaker crackles: “Please watch out for pickpockets.” You look down. You can’t even find your own pocket, just perfect.

9:03 AM

You make it to the office. Somehow. You immediately aim for the restroom because now it’s not just about needing to go, it’s about proving that you still have some control over your own bodily autonomy.

But there’s a sign... “Currently being cleaned.” Of course it is.

You ask the cleaning person if it’ll be long, and they give you that look - the one that says you’re the problem. You consider arguing, just for the principle. But then you remember the meeting coming up, the unread emails, and the fact that you’re already dangerously close to losing it over something that shouldn’t even be a fight.

You decide to wait. Again. And tell your bladder to be brave.

12:37 PM

It’s officially Lunch break. You’re not even hungry, you’re just a slow-burning ball of frustration, caffeine, and three hours of repressed biological need. But it’s not like you can eat when you feel like it. No, no - you eat when the system permits it, when the unwritten social rules say it’s okay to leave your desk and pretend to enjoy your processed freedom. Breaks are about schedule. You go when the system says you may.

But before you’re allowed to go your boss sends you out to get coffee, because apparently, caffeine management is now a core part of your job description. You don’t argue. You just go. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to use the café’s bathroom this time.

You arrive, stand in line, order his triple-something, and ask, very politely, if you could have a glass of tap water while you wait. The barista blinks at you like you just proposed marriage or murder. She informs you that they “don’t do that” but you’re welcome to buy a €6.80 bottle of still water with a name like “Eau Vitalité” and a pH value printed in gold foil.

You nod, pretending this makes sense. Inside you want to scream: “It falls from the f*ing sky.”

But instead, you smile, pay, and quietly hate yourself.

Finally- finally- you spot the bathroom. Unlabeled, mysterious, tucked behind stacked crates and a fridge that hums ominously.

You open the door slowly, like someone entering a haunted house in a horror movie and are immediately hit by a wave of sour warmth and a motivational poster that reads:“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

There’s no toilet paper. There’s barely a lightbulb. The floor is wet with… something. You back out slowly and you whisper “never mind” to no one in particular. You hold it in. Again.

14:04 PM

Back in the office. One more try. This time it has to be it.

You face the holy trinity of corporate restroom doors - Men, Women, and Whatever. You no longer care. You choose the one with the shortest line and the least chance of a motivational poster staring back at you.

Inside, you find a tampon dispenser mounted next to the urinal, a fluorescent light that makes your soul feel visible, and a mirror reflecting not your face, but your accumulated disbelief.

You catch a glimpse of someone exiting a stall wearing sunglasses...indoors...on a cloudy day. You wonder briefly if they’re famous, insane, or just shielding themselves from the raw horror of office life. You kind of get it.

You finally go. It’s anticlimactic. No relief - just mechanical necessity.

You wash your hands and walk out, wondering if you’re the only one who still sees how strange this all is or if the rest just decided it’s easier to keep the shades on.

15:43 PM

The meeting finally ends or at least that’s what your calendar claims.

In reality, your boss seamlessly transitions into a “quick recap,” which, as always, turns into an unfiltered 27-minute stream of buzzwords, performative concerns, and vague praise for things no one actually did.

You nod along, eyes fixed on the clock, because the school has already called twice and you're dangerously close to adding your name to the local missing persons list.

You try to leave gracefully, but the guilt of corporate loyalty clings to you like a wet sock. Still, you gather your things, offer a thin, overcompensating smile, and slide out of the meeting room with the elegance of someone fleeing a crime scene.

16:28 PM

You reach the train station slightly out of breath, clutching your bag, your phone, and what’s left of your optimism only to look up at the digital display and see that the train you needed is delayed by 23 minutes. You stand there blinking at the board, as if staring hard enough will change the outcome. The next train? Canceled. The one after that? “Delayed due to operational disruptions.”

A familiar voice crackles through the loudspeaker, delivering the standard line with sterile cheer: “Thank you for your understanding.” You’d laugh if it weren’t so insulting. You’re not understanding. You’re stranded and the school is calling again.

You try to explain that you're on your way, that the system is broken, that you're doing your best. But of course, you're talking to an overworked teacher who’s also waiting to get home, and you can hear the fatigue in her voice when she says, “Alright. We'll wait a little longer.”

You hang up, stand in the late afternoon light, and remind yourself that technically, no laws were broken just your will to keep pretending this is okay.

17:55 PM

You arrive at the school just in time to avoid a formal report. The teacher doesn’t say anything overtly judgmental but her silence is sharp enough to make you feel like you’ve failed a moral exam. Your child looks at you with a mix of relief and betrayal, as if you left them alone on a distant planet. You reach for the emergency snack in your bag. It’s not the right one. Of course it isn’t.

You offer a half-hearted apology, which your child accepts in the passive-aggressive language of sighs and dramatic backpack slinging. You drive home together without speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been swallowed by the day.

18:42 PM

You pull into the driveway, mentally rehearsing the moment you open the door and see your neatly packaged, perfectly timed dinner waiting for you because you planned ahead today. You were smart. You ordered delivery hours ago.

You check the app, the status says “Delivered.” You open the door. There’s nothing.

You check with the neighbors. They didn’t see anything. You contact support. A chatbot named “Happy” offers you €1.50 off your next order and a digital heart emoji.

You stare at the screen, feeling insulted by the cartoon optimism of artificial empathy. You close the app and stand in the hallway for a moment, unsure whether to cry or just laugh until your brain resets.

20:17 PM

You cobble together a dinner using the last three ingredients in your fridge- all of them beige, all of them questionable and try to pretend that this was the plan all along. One item burns. One falls on the floor. The third is slightly expired. You eat it anyway. The kids complain, of course they do. So you pour them cereal...again.

You clean the dishes in silence, staring out the window, wondering how this became normal. You’re not unhappy. But you’re not anything else either.

22:36 PM

You fall into bed like a broken piece of furniture collapsing under its own weight. You scroll through your feed out of habit, eyes dry, heart numb, thumb twitching. You see people glowing. People winning. People bathing in candlelight and good intentions. You see peace, balance, freedom

all wrapped in filters and pastel fonts.

You look at your ceiling. It’s cracked. You pull the blanket up and lie really still, hoping that maybe the stillness will feel like something close to rest.

You made it.

Another day.

Not really lived.

Not deeply felt.

But survived.

And in this world? That counts for something, right?

[End.]

This is not a breakdown. This is just Monday morning in the system.