Monday signifies the second day of my work week, but I stole the idea from a deceased genius. Time to honour the death of nine-to-five forced drudgery.
Odds are you spent yesterday following this chart. A regimented schedule of sweet nothing, and I’m not judging. All I’m saying is that we’ll all be dead soon, and there’s much left to do. And yeah, we all need leisure, time away from the desk, table, vehicle, cab we find ourselves stuck in, but all I’m saying is that the clock is ticking, bro. How are we to finish the extra-curricular things we put back if we don’t intrude upon the seventh day?
Not that I’m being preachy, I’m here to help. Like an ex-con trying to walk the narrow path of righteousness. I’ve changed, man.
I, like all of us, have dipped a metatarsal, shin, knee, leg or torso into the dark pool of procrastination, but the lazy days of earnest procrastination chuckles are dead. Dead as dead, for I’ve discovered working on the sabbath. As the large manager upstairs charted the first work choices contract in which He deemed the seventh day one of rest, I’ve found great success in blasphemy.
You see, there are great positives in working a day when everyone is absent. You feel superior but, more importantly, you are left the fuck alone. I realise how disappointing it is to have to read a faux-artist bang on about his “process” but here it is: I write at 3am because no-one is around to distract me; the Facebook chat window is barren, as the phone remains mercifully silent. You see, I am a serial procrastinator. I once watched Breaking Bad in it’s entirety back-to-back, the second time with the audio commentary, in part, to avoid a due assignment.
I failed the assignment, and learned nothing.
As 3am weekdays work, so does 11am Sunday. People are busying themselves with doing nothing, and it is a solitary nothing. You are absolutely not invited. I never thought I’d relish working on the day of rest, and when it became known that that’s what would be expected of me in my new position, I bit my tongue whilst stomping my heavy clodhoppers. “Sunday?”, I squealed in protest. “But that’s my day to nothing.” A film-line comes to mind: “I’m aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity.” However, 12 months on, Sunday is merely my Monday.
The point I’m eventually wandering a conclusion to is this: whether we like or accept it or not, if we expect to get anything meaningful done, the normative nine-to-five, five days a week work routine is dead. However, the ease of technology has merely proved itself a catalyst for breaking the mould for normal people. You see, bent, crackpot geniuses have been warping the accepted work hours for hundreds of years.
The above listed genius are merely a guideline to abuse. For example, I’ve dragged familial vibes from the working habits of Kafka (totally Kafka-esque, bitch!) who worked on his own projects between 11pm-5am, then kipping before and after work, din-dins, then clocking back on when the sun goes down. #ProductivityBae
I suppose the lesson here is, whatever is normal is what works for you, and if you’re reading this, eyes leaden, brain mush, nerves frayed, perhaps it’s time for a change.