I work remotely. I don’t go into an office every day, which is nice, mostly because I’m not cut out for it. (I used to work in an office where my skills involved not knowing how the coffee machine worked and having my car alarm go off twice a day, usually during important meetings.)

But people often wonder what my day-to-day looks like, so I thought I’d give you a little breakdown of my schedule.

6:10 AM: Wake up because the pipes in my apartment building occasionally do this thing where they sound like someone is trapped in the walls and trying to smash their way out with a hammer.

6:10 AM — 7:30 AM: Lie in bed switching between apps on my phone. Realize that I am just whiling away my time before the grave.

7:30 AM — 8:00 AM: Eat breakfast. Usually waffles.

8:00 AM — 8:45 AM: Get dressed. This typically involves taking all the clothes out of my closet, throwing them on the floor, and asking myself out loud “Why don’t I own ANY CLOTHES” before deciding on the same sweatshirt-and-jeans combo I wear every day.

8:45 AM — 1:00 PM: Get to work. Sometimes I go to a coffee shop or library, other times I stay home and try to avoid eating too many snacks. I write, do research, and answer emails. People then respond to these emails, perpetuating an eternal cycle, and I am forced to go lie down for a few minutes to collect myself.

1:15 PM: Eat lunch. Most of the time I go to Subway where the guy invariably asks me if I want “the usual,” to which I say yes, and then we’re both disappointed in my unwillingness to try new things.

1:45 PM — 5:00 PM: I go back to work. It’s hard to say exactly what I’m doing at this juncture. Sometimes I’m writing copy, sometimes I’m reading Hamlet for the twelfth time, sometimes I’m Photoshopping Voldemort’s head onto Brad Pitt’s body. You just never know.

5:00 PM — 6:00 PM: I go for a jog, or I put on my workout clothes and watch episodes of Catfish until it's too late to exercise.

6:00 PM — 7:30 PM: Dinner happens. I might be going out with friends, but more often than not I’m eating leftover pasta and perfecting the ever-present butt dent in my couch.

7:30 PM — 10:00 PM: I have no idea what I do during this time, which is alarming. This is two and a half hours I can’t account for. Am I watching YouTube videos of hamsters running mazes? Am I reading comments on my articles and drinking wine? Am I going on Amazon and putting things in my cart knowing full and damn well I can’t afford them? Who's to say?

10:00 PM: I go to bed.

Approximately 1:00 AM, maybe 3:45: I fall asleep.
I am a person who spends a lot of time writing in coffee shops and libraries. I do this because working from my apartment gets lonely and boring, and because my sink is always full of dirty dishes and I hate being reminded of that fact. I realize I could just do the dishes, but what do you take me for? Someone who tackles their problems directly? Absolutely not.

So I go to these coffee shops, and I sit there and I work, and apparently I am wearing a sign on my back that that says "COME TALK TO ME, AND PLEASE BE AS WEIRD AS POSSIBLE" because this happens constantly.

Take today, for instance. I was working at the library. A man in a suit approached me and asked if he could sit in the adjacent cubicle. I thought he was going to read a book, or work on his laptop, or perhaps take a surreptitious nap before his conference call with a guy named Trent.

I did not think he was going to begin whisper-singing along to screamo music right there in the middle of the periodicals section, but I guess life is full of surprises.

Look, I'm not usually one to tell people where they should or shouldn't be singing along to screamo music. I just thought the public library would be one of those places you’d think of and then think, "Mm, probably shouldn’t."

Twice the librarian came over to tell him to keep his voice down, and twice he apologized before apparently forgetting about the interaction entirely. Within minutes, he was back at it. I could have moved seats, I suppose, but I was drawn to this inexplicable puzzle of a man, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. The rest of us are bound by social etiquette and cowardice; he answers to no one, plays by different rules, bows to different gods. And I had questions. Boy, did I have questions. Why had he gone to the library only to whisper-sing in a cubicle? Why was he wearing a suit? Who was this man? Was he a man at all?

Now, he is not the weirdest person I've ever encountered at the public library, but he's up there.
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