The Eternal Drudgery Of Working Class Existence

A state of tranquil repose is rudely interrupted by a buzz-beep drone, so I reach over with an apathetic frame of mind to switch off my alarm. I become a walking contradiction: various little routines of preparation for work help to calm the inspiration which may have tormented me during the night, while watching a DVD that I like or listening to a fine piece of music will prevent the mediocrity from entirely devouring my soul; maintaining the balance of rage and love is paramount. When I get to work it isn't long before customers commence wielding their attempts at power play; they know they can always get the last word for that is the nature of 'professionalism'. They talk down to me with demeaning tones secure in the knowledge that if I show a hint of independent spirit they will simply complain about me and thereby threaten to remove my financial livelihood. I want to yell at them,"You think I'm afraid of you, you fuck! I could whip your ass through the fucking streets if I wanted to, and you sure as hell couldn't beat me in a battle of verbal volleyball; my gift with words is unparalleled, my capacity for independent thought allows me to dwell on concepts that you will never even consider, and you dare to patronise me just because you can manipulate this greed-ridden society more to your advantage than I can!" But of course I can't say those things. The institutionalised economic repression has nearly as much of a hold on me as it does most people, only their blinkered ignorance allows them to not be bothered by it.
Lunchtime comes and half an hour's reprieve develops as I'm able to stroll around town in a pleasant little world of my own. The college girls are all around and a momentary inspiration hits me that if I could get a cool girlfriend my general malaise in motivation would lift, possibly allowing my life to progress at a more steady and decisive pace. But nothing brings my otherwise calm insecurities more to the surface than being confronted with an attractive young lady accompanied by the expectation of wit and inane jollity. So my morale is sapped once more as I stand in a stilted frame of anxious contemplation; if I can't even form a long-term relationship then how in the hell am I ever going to advance my career to a state where I will wake up each morning smiling?
The afternoon passes exactly as the morning did and I get to go home knowing I have a few hours of freedom to explore. A stimulant is required to redress the balance of perpetual mediocrity. Alcohol. It will not only numb the anxiety but also give me hope that tomorrow will be different, that I am capable of world-shaking, that fear itself is largely an illusion; perhaps everything truly can have a purpose, perhaps my screaming unfulfilled potential can finally reach the fore and achieve that greatness which forever tempts me at the edge of my fingertips. Surely it must be possible? But the hyper-sensitivity that so easily takes me to the pinnacle of mental agility will of course slam me right back down to the ground again when the tranquil repose into which I glide ever so gently will once more be rudely interrupted by the eternal drudgery and its intermittent companion, the hangover. Is this really all there is?