Morning Routines of Highly Functional Alcoholics

A Totally Scientific Guide to Winning at Life (Terms and Conditions Apply)

4:47 AM: Nobody’s Buying This Shit

You set your alarm for 4:47 AM because some dickhead on LinkedIn said prime numbers activate your prefrontal cortex.

That’s not even a prime number. You know this. You knew it when you set the alarm. But here you are, letting mathematical lies run your life because Tim Ferriss said something about “bio-hacking your circadian rhythm” and now you’re committed to this nonsense.

What actually happens at 4:47? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Your alarm goes off, you hit snooze seventeen times, and suddenly it’s 6:43 and you’re late. Again. But hey, at least you TRIED to be one of those morning people. That counts for something in the cosmic scoreboard of adulting, right?

Wrong.

Your Phone Hates You Too

That last one? That’s your body’s natural “oh shit” reflex. More reliable than any app. Your anxiety could run a Fortune 500 company with that kind of consistency.

The Breakfast Lie

Everyone pretends breakfast is “the most important meal of the day.” You know what’s actually important? Not vomiting on the subway. That’s the bar. That’s the whole bar.

Monday through Wednesday you’re eating cereal straight from the box while standing over the sink like some kind of depression-era cartoon character. Thursday you get fancy – that’s toast day. Burnt toast, because you started making it, got distracted by an existential crisis, and now it’s carbon. You eat it anyway. Suffering builds character, or whatever.

Friday? Friday you waltz into that overpriced coffee shop like you’re Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. “Oat milk cortado with an extra shot,” you tell the barista who definitely went to art school and definitely judges your entire vibe. Then you add fourteen sugars when they’re not looking because you’re an adult and adults can make terrible decisions before 9 AM.

The weekend doesn’t count. Time isn’t real on weekends. Breakfast at 3 PM? That’s just European. You’re cultured now.

Shower Thoughts and Other Lies

You ever notice how every self-help article talks about “mindful morning showers”?

Fuck off with that.

Your shower is where you have imaginary arguments with people from 2012. Where you solve crimes you saw on Netflix. Where you definitely, absolutely remember whether you used shampoo or just stood under the water thinking about that embarrassing thing you did in seventh grade.

The water temperature has two settings: Satan’s jacuzzi or Jack’s death scene from Titanic. You’ve named the shower wall Gerald because Gerald’s the only thing keeping you vertical at 6:45 AM and Gerald deserves respect. Sometimes you have full conversations with Gerald. Gerald’s a good listener. Better than your therapist, honestly. (Cheaper too.)

You stay in there for 47 minutes because time isn’t real in the shower. Einstein proved this. Probably. You wouldn’t know, you were busy arguing with Jessica from accounting about something she said three weeks ago that she definitely doesn’t remember.

Getting Dressed (Generous Term)

Let’s talk about The Chair™.

Everyone has The Chair™. If you say you don’t, you’re lying or you’re a serial killer. Those are the only options.

The Chair™ holds 90% of your wardrobe. Not the clean stuff. Not the dirty stuff. The stuff in purgatory. The “worn once to get mail” clothes. The “technically clean but spiritually questionable” items. The Chair™ doesn’t judge. The Chair™ understands.

Your actual closet is just for show. It’s where clothes go to die. That suit from your cousin’s wedding in 2015? Still there. Those jeans that fit for exactly one week in 2019? Present. The shirt with the weird stain that might be coffee or might be something darker? We don’t talk about that shirt.

You get dressed in the dark because light is aggressive and mornings are violence. Whatever you grab first is what you’re wearing. Stripes with plaid? That’s fashion, sweetie. That’s called taking risks.

The Commute from Hell

Public transportation when you’re operating at 40% capacity is basically warfare.

Some psychopath is eating egg salad at 7:15 AM. Who does that? Who wakes up and thinks “You know what this enclosed metal tube needs? The smell of sulfur and mayonnaise.” This person probably has bodies in their basement. You move to another car but the damage is done. The day is cursed.

Your survival kit:

• Mints that could melt steel
• Coffee strong enough to wake the dead
• Backup coffee for when the first one fails
• Sunglasses (medical necessity)
• That little bottle of hand sanitizer that’s basically pure alcohol (for sanitizing, definitely sanitizing)

Standing without holding the rail is your cardio. You call it “subway surfing” but really it’s just “trying not to die while pretending to read emails.” You’ve perfected the art of looking busy while doing absolutely nothing. That’s a skill. That’s a LinkedIn endorsement waiting to happen.

Office Theatre

You know what’s incredible? The daily performance of pretending to be a functional adult professional.

“Morning, Janet!” you chirp at reception while speed-walking like you have somewhere important to be. You don’t. You never do. But Janet doesn’t need to know that you’re just going to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes to gather the strength to face Brad from sales.

Your desk is a masterpiece of organized chaos. Forty-seven browser tabs open. Three different coffee cups in various stages of decomposition. A plant that’s either dead or “dormant” (it’s dead). And somewhere, buried under the pile of papers you’ll “get to later,” is your will to live.

You type aggressively at nothing. Just hammering those keys like you’re writing the next great American novel. You’re actually typing “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over but from a distance it looks like productivity.

3 PM: The Reckoning

This is when the morning’s crimes against your body come home to roost.

The coffee isn’t working anymore. You’re considering a fourth cup but your left eye is already twitching and you’re pretty sure you can hear colors. The fluorescent lights are personally attacking you. Brad from sales exists. Everything is terrible.

You’ve got three options:

1. More coffee (dangerous but familiar)
2. That energy drink in the vending machine (tastes like battery acid and regret)
3. Death

You choose option 1 because you’re nothing if not consistent in your bad decisions.

The Truth Nobody Wants to Admit

Here’s the thing.

Everyone’s pretending. That yoga instructor who posts sunrise selfies? She took those at sunset and reversed them. Your boss who “never needs coffee”? He’s got a Keurig in his desk drawer. That friend who “meal preps every Sunday”? That’s five identical Lean Cuisines, Barbara.

You’re not failing at being an adult. You’re just honest about it. While everyone else is lying about their morning meditation and green juice, you’re out here raw-dogging reality with nothing but spite and caffeine.

And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful.

Tomorrow you’ll probably say you’re going to change. You’ll set one alarm instead of seventeen. You’ll eat breakfast that involves actual nutrients. You’ll shower at a normal human temperature and time. You’ll pick clothes that match. You’ll be on time.

You won’t do any of those things.

But you’ll survive another day, and in this economy, that’s basically winning an Olympic medal.

So keep doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Gerald the shower wall believes in you. That’s enough.

Disclaimer: This is satire. Your liver is not a rental. Water exists and is free. Gerald is not a licensed therapist. Please make one (1) good decision today. The bar is underground at this point.