Every day I have an existential crisis.
Every day around the same time.
“Why am I here?”
“What have I done with my life?”
“Is this it?”
“Will I do this for another forty years?”
Not so long ago, forty years was a lifetime.
There are at least two different people whom my only interaction with is to point out which day of the week it currently is.
We share assurances.
It is better, I suppose, than having an assurance alone.
Fake outrage for dubious numbers always prevails.
“We must do better!”
I nod my head in agreement with the seriousness of an assistant to the regional manager.