Gregory Milne awoke with a slight headache and an extremely dry mouth. With half-opened eyes, he tried to remember where he was. Then, he reached for his mobile phone. The reorientation process slowly followed. It was a Tuesday afternoon. “Man, I hate the sun!”, exclaimed Milne. But it transpired that he’d only thought it. That was always the case with Milne. Reorienting was a slippery business for Milne, so he had developed a routine and tried maintaining it.
Milne, clad in a pair of boxers and a white, crew-neck t-shirt, walked to the kitchen. His phone is half-tucked inside the elastic of his boxer-brief. He foraged a glass cup from the dishwasher, walked it to the fridge’s water dispenser and filled it. Then he emptied his contents inside his mouth. Looked up at the ceiling for a second, then repeated the process. Next he ventured into the bathroom. He put his phone down in the counter and reached for the neti-pot. He decided against playing music. Even on his phone, it would’ve been too loud. Filling up the neti-pot with a saline solution, he cleared his nasal passages, after which he brushed his teeth. He then sat on the toilet, waiting.
Milne reached for his phone. He then swiped his thumb across it’s screen, opened the mail app and deleted all new messages except three. One from his phone carrier, another from his brother and the last one from, “Human Resources”. He opened that one. It read:
We appreciate your interest in the so and so position at the so and so institution. After reviewing the applications, yours was not selected for further consideration. We had a strong pool of…”
He read it like that and up until that point. The rejection letters were a recent addition to Milne’s morning ritual. Then he browsed the news. This involved browsing the sports section of BBC.co.uk and the headlines of the most popular posts on a content aggregator that he frequented. Milne had decided against reading what most consider news, for it made him sad and helpless. Consequently, he had had trouble conversing with people.
If Milne had produced things that he could’ve flushed down the toilet, the reorientation would have been complete. But he couldn’t. So he got up and drank another glass of water. Still no signs. So he filled up his Blender Bottle and took it back to bed. But he couldn’t sleep either. Milne had a digestive condition that he did not understand and didn’t have the any money to pay for a consultation. So he tried to manage it. He’d taken up intermittent fasting and had quit drinking alcohol. He suspected that it was his liver but Milne knew nothing about the workings of the human body. He’d studied communications in college and was bang average at it. The thing he discovered from investing four years studying communication was that he was below par at communicating. G-Millz, as his friends liked to call him, had discovered in college that smoking marijuana mitigated the incessant and untimely shitting. So now out of college, Milne would smoke a joint or two. Only in special occasions though, like if he was just getting to know a girl or was going camping.
In bed, Milne tried meditating. “Focus on your breathing”, someone had told him. As he was, his thoughts kept wandering so he got up and took a swig from his water bottle. Then he went to the bathroom accompanied by his cell phone. He had decided that he’d sit in the toilet until he emptied his bowel. Milne was determined about such things. So after a failing again, he came out and made himself a green smoothie. It consisted of broccoli stems, kale, half an avocado and a banana. Although he had been making the smoothie for over a month, he still hadn’t figured out the proportions required to make a cup. He always ended up with two or three. And drinking three cups of fiber and water made G-Millz shit like a racehorse.