Hot Piles Of Garbage: Editor Amanda Mannen’s Morning Routine
Today’s morning routine: AMANDA MANNEN
This week, we’re thrilled to have the privilege of sharing the morning routine of one of our feared and beloved editorial overlords, Amanda Mannen. Amanda—or “Manna,” as she has repeatedly told us not to call her—lives in Missoula, Montana, so we didn’t actually go out there to observe her morning routine firsthand even though LAX is one of the few airports that actually flies directly to Missoula because we’re scared of Republicans. Also, because she told us she would shoot us on sight. It wasn’t clear if that’s because, as she constantly reminds us, she doesn’t actually know any of our names or faces or if she would shoot us just for the hell of it. Either way, you’re just going to have to take her word that this is what she does every morning:
My alarm goes off, and I begin moving through my daily flow into the five stages of grief. Denial: “No. No. It can’t already be time to get up.” Anger: “Goddammit, this is bullshit, I demand to speak to the manager. The manager of time.” Bargaining: “Just gimme five more minutes. Five more minutes won’t be that bad, right?” Depression: “All I want is sleep. Is that so much to ask? Why has God forsaken me?” Acceptance: “Alright, let’s see what Twitter is doing.” I pee, light a cigarette, prepare a refreshing morning pick-me-up of generic diet soda, and slump over my phone.
My second alarm goes off in case I slept through the first one or got stuck at the bargaining stage.
I announce to my pet human that it is, regrettably, another wretched morning and watch her move through the stages of grief herself. I attempt to locate enough unsoiled items of clothing from her bedroom floor to constitute an outfit and only occasionally succeed. I remind myself to do laundry later.
I make a half-assed attempt at brushing the little monster’s hair before giving up and braiding it. I remind myself to take her out back and hose her down later.
I have hopefully ferried the child person to the school bus on time because I’m sure as hell not walking anywhere before noon. I am free of its curse for six and a half hours. I briefly consider working. I return to Twitter instead. I treat myself to another generic diet soda.
I become embroiled in a web of Twitter drama six quote-tweets deep that eventually leads me to a thread literally hundreds of tweets deep that no longer concerns anything that interests me. Occasionally, I get sidetracked by the sudden urge to know how many times Neil Young has been married (three). I remember that “Heart of Gold” is a kick-ass jam. Then, I get sucked down a YouTube hole of ’70s folk music, then ’90s folk music, then ’90s alternative, and it always seems to end at Lady Gaga. I return to my Twitter thread. I smoke many cigarettes. I drink many generic diet sodas.
I check in with Bunny Ears Slack. I pick a random writer to make cry. Gotta keep ’em on their toes.
I consider working. I return to Twitter.
I realize I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. I weigh the merits of oral hygiene versus getting up. Cozy bed wins. Cozy bed is all that exists.
I realize I haven’t eaten yet. I weigh the merits of cooking a healthy breakfast versus getting up. I UberEats some McDonald’s from six blocks away.
I consider working, but tummy too full and bed too cozy. I start binge-watching Bones for the eighth time.
I check to make sure I set my alarm for 20 minutes before school is out in case I decided to take a nap (it always is) and drift contentedly off to sleep, visions of desiccated corpses dancing through my head.
Fuck, I forgot about the laundry.
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