the long dark inexplicably thursdayish teatime of the soul

tea for breakfast in the morning like a good britisher before trundling off to work in the mist and mizzle that is thursday or was it tuesday but it doesn’t really matter because every morning and every day is the same and it’s only the nights that are different now but of course the weekends have their own set routines different from the nine-to-five-day-a-week schedule of the working class who trot into their shiny buildings like clockwork stopping only to maybe have a cigarette outside or grab a cup of coffee before sinking into the cubicles they’ve learned to consider their homes away from home and somehow manage to cope and translate the endless monotony of it all into a camaraderie that forms the ties that bind otherwise they’d go stark raving mad if they didn’t learn to recognize the spark of human nature and uniqueness inherent in each other cube-inhabiting body mired in a chair with glazed-over eyes and that is what they call adult life where you have to pay for everything and there’s no such thing as a free lunch because someone somewhere always has to pay for it if not from this week’s market trends and shipping prices then from next week’s pocket change left over from the quadruple-shot latte to keep awake those long hours at the desk hoping that you remembered what you didn’t want to forget and wondering idly about life in general like what the difference is between earl grey and english breakfast and lady grey and english teatime when they all contain oil of bergamot …