What is the best morning routine? Most of us crack our backs while twisting to secure the dopaminergic devices; phones and disposable vapes find their way into our clutch—my generation’s coffee. Somewhere between dreaming and working, we have to face… it. Better to drown it out. I’ve reasoned, however, that I want to face and process what my subconscious brewed up in the night—best not to submerge it in stimulation.
While pondering alternatives to the dopamine duo, my mind is crossed by influencer morning routines, the ideal morning diet, charts that track dopamine. You know when you wake up, you’re at your baseline for the day. If you spike it, it increases the likelihood of a crash, which could affect mood, energy, and productivity.
My little sister falls asleep to murder podcasts—the sadist. I wonder how healthy it is to wake up to a murder podcast.
“Police correspondents unearthed the severed finger after a three-day investigation—” and so on.
Little sis seems content though, or some indiscernible equivalent. Lying flat, eyes on Sims while tales of murder echo through our shared room.
“Can you turn that down? I need to focus.”
She doesn’t move an inch—not even a twitch of the eye. Somehow, that was a more effective retaliation than a response.
My “focus” was a prayer/meditation combo. Not sure how to classify it, as I’ve never been to a church service. I’ve been trying it out for a few days—first thing in the morning. I channeled my focus on rays of light that landed on the door. They cut through just enough dust to appear like actual beams you could touch. I imagined myself wielding one; it followed my breath.
I would probably stab a billionaire oligarch with it if they were in my line of sight. One of the evil ones, though—isn’t wielding that much capital functionally evil? Would wielding these light beams give me Zeus-like powers? Are they like bolts that I could smite people with? Wouldn’t that make me a bit like a billionaire oligarch in power, since we could both smite people in their homes with hard-to-trace projectiles?
This line of thought is hubris, and I’m doing a disservice toward the sacred.
Prayer became painful when God started answering. It complicates the process when a clear voice cuts through the fog—a PA system of an internal monologue that is clearly subject to bias, yet sees itself as God’s voice. Does that mean God is real, or that I’m God? Or like some fucked-up fraction of God that forgot after a few hundred thousand incarnations? I leaned into the latter and concluded my meditation.
Speaking of improperly perceiving things as God—I emerge into the living room/kitchen to mother and father arguing over a chatbot prompt to do their taxes. My parents shouldn’t be married.
A memory flashes in: my grandfather gliding a pen over tax documents, cigarette in mouth on our old patio. This time, the beams of light were held up by smoke. Back when real men chose their cancer analog style with a side of physical writing. The cigarette probably felt good while he did mental calculations, balancing reason in his cortex like our ancestors have done since Eve ate the apple. Now I watched as two people bickered over how to outsource rationality to a server that’s causing droughts throughout the American Southwest.
I think I feel a little sick. I reach for a banana. It looks a bit past prime, and I feel a bit let down when it emerges from its peel brown. The memory of a documentary from a few days ago persuades me to consume the rotted nanner flesh regardless.
Globally, approximately one-third of all food produced for human consumption is lost or wasted—
“HEY, where the fuck is my jacket?”
The family shifts their attention toward the intrusion of normalcy.
“Don’t swear in this house!” Mom cut in.
“Did you take her backpack?” from Dad, with a disgusted head tilt.
“Her pink backpack. Yes, I needed it for drag, you dimwits—I was cosplaying as a fairy.”
My retort caused the sister to continue scouring the house, and now my parents think I’m a little fruity. The only thing fruity in this house, though, is the mushy, tannish-brown banana that I still have to fight my way to finish. I can’t waste it—there’s so much food waste in this world. Especially meat.
220 million animals die every day from factory farming—that’s nearly double the number of human lives lost during both WWI and WWII (125 million). This figure is a bit drastic as it accounts for all animals, including aquatic. Most people see fish as less than objects, though. Still—23 million land animals every day. That’s like three holocausts but with pigs, cows, and chickens. And nearly a third of that is simply wasted—left to rot.
“Did you know three holocausts happen every day but for animals?” I blurt.
My parents turn to me, concerned. The silence is only interrupted by my sister tearing apart the closet looking for her backpack.
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” my dad responds.
My dad and I actually share a laugh about this, but only because it was admittedly a bit out of pocket.
“No, Dad seriously—23 million land animals are killed in factory farming every day. That’s like three holocausts a day,” I say, followed by a snort that morphs into a sigh.
“Hey, be grateful that your society can offer you food. Some societies haven’t worked that out yet—like all those places we give away our tax dollars to. They can’t support their own people, so we have to help them,” he replies, then continues typing.
“No no, this goes into accounts payable—” follows my mother.
“Hey, get ready everyone. We go to the tax accountant in ten, then we’ll drop you off at school. Help your sister find her bag.”
I stand in silence for a moment, contemplating the purgatory that waits for me and my family at the tax accountant’s office. I then go to the basket that rests near the shoe closet. Underneath a blanket lies my sister’s bag.
I hand it to her.
“Thanks. Hey, how’d you find it so quick? Did you know where it was? I knew your ass was using my pink bag.”
“No—heh, sometimes I notice you throw it in there when you’re rushing into the house. I’m detail-oriented.”
“Chat, he’s autistic,” she replies while turning away.
What was meant to be a simple funny jab made me consider the linguistic implications of the emergence of “chat” in our language. Its prevalence among Gen Alpha speaks to their interest in streaming culture, as well as a propensity to always feel like their lives are self-referential or always documented. The emergence of “chat” in our language is a sign of our self-imposed surveillance state—a feudal state that has resulted in people crowdsourced funding for each other with entertainment to such an egregious degree that now our youth perpetuates the word the streamer uses to acknowledge his anonymous viewer base.
Maybe I am a little autistic.
Suddenly, a wave of family members cascaded upon me, pushing me to throw on my shoes and hustle to the car. Suddenly, the dynamic was completely different. We sped down the highway—parents in the front seat, me and sis in the back. The parents continued to bicker in their pilot seats, discussing the inadequate state of the family vehicle, finances, and politics. Finally, as we approached some road work, their conversation landed on infrastructure collapse.
“They’ve been working on this road for months. Why doesn’t the city just hire a private company to do this? They could have had this done ages ago.”
I felt myself getting pulled into the conversation.
“I feel like this is a broader issue that has to do with the ineffective nature of automotive transit. Also, the contracting for jobs like this is private enough—that’s why it’s taking so long. Because there are too many middlemen trying to get a slice of the pie while the workers are incentivized to take as long as possible since there’s no other work.”
“He’s gonna give you a socialism speech now,” came from my sister’s seat. Noises emerged from her phone as she scrolled on TikTok. She shifted uncomfortably.
“If you gave a damn about politics, you’d agree with me. And yes, a more egalitarian solution would probably solve this country’s infrastructure problems as well as our job crisis. You know all about the job crisis, don’t you, Dad?”
This was a mistake. The car devolved into war at this point. Their voices competed for space to insult me.
“Your father is hardworking, it’s not his fault the state—! You’re never going to get a job yourself, you lazy—! Rude remark, also you and your sister’s generation don’t understand sacrifice. You guys can barely adapt to change.”
I began to feel heat crawl down my neck. My sister did NOT like this comment from Pops about change.
“OH YOU THINK WE DON’T KNOW CHANGE?! ALL I’VE KNOWN IS CHANGE! YOU CAN’T HOLD A JOB TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. OUR EXCUSE FOR A FAMILY CAN BARELY EAT BECAUSE OF YOU, AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON YOUR CONSTANT THREATS OF DIVORCING EACH OTHER! LIKE IT’S ME AND MY BROTHER’S FAULT FOR YOUR GUYS’ INSTABILITY. WE JUST WANTED A NORMAL LIFE! BUT—BUT—YOU GUYS—” Her voice began to trail off into tears, which she promptly tried to solve by pulling up her phone.
“We know change. My generation understands change,” I state.
The car screeches into a parking lot.
“Whatever, we’re here. You kids get your shit together and stay in the car. You best be in a better mood when we come back or you’re grounded.”
They both exited and slammed the door, leaving me and my sister behind.
Mom and Dad are trapped in some semblance of the old world. It’s almost nostalgic, watching them fumble within their outdated perception. The spikes of change only poke and prod their conception of reality. For me, my eyes are made of the spikes. And the seeds of change lie in my hands.
My sister began to cry. I placed my hand on her shoulder and rubbed her back. I felt stable—no anger. Chills ran up and down my spine.
“Why — does the world hurt so much?” she asked, between sobs.
“Have faith, little sis. One day, us and others like us won’t have to deal with this coldness. People will care for each other instead of trying to get ahead themselves. Our families will be safe, warm places, and our kids won’t have to worry about their future because they live in a society that cares about them.”
“I can’t see that future. All I see is—is it getting worse.”
I felt my throat close a little.
“Most people like us feel that way right now. But we hold the keys to our own future—we get to build it.”
“How do you trust that, though? When will it get better?” she replied.
“I don’t know when… But—it will be like a parade is coming to town! We’ll celebrate that we get to be alive in the first place, and there will be trumpets, and people sharing food, and everyone like us will be dancing in the streets.”
“You don’t know when though?” She cracked a smirk through tears.
“Soon, I hope. I’m a bit older, you know. I share your intuition with this reality. I see how it works and what it does to people like us. But I caught a glimpse of the old world—just long enough to capture what it did right.”