My cellphone rattles gently on the bedside table. Between the dampening of the protective rubber case shrouding this electronic device, and the sophisticated charging pad upon which it sits, the disturbance is barely audible. This is my version of a wake-up alarm, using the least invasive means possible.

In reality. I’m already semi-conscious, having been caught in the grey zone between asleep and awake for the past hour. My confused mental state is much like the sky itself at this early 6 AM hour. The sun and moon are currently battling in the pre-dawn sky, their combined light shining through the shear backout curtains, casting a hazy radiance into my bedroom.

Flat on my back, body fully extended, I stare up at the popcorn-textured white ceiling treatment and let my mind clear. I have a knack for vividly remembering dreams, especially those which occur in these morning transition periods.

As is often the case, I have been pulled back into the harshness of reality from a very restful place. Today’s imagined setting was sprawled in a hammock, on a bright sunny day, the persistent gargle of a nearby stream, and the shrill tweeting of a bird in the adjacent oak tree, to which one end of my perch is tied. Dreaming about sleeping, a very meta process indeed.

I don’t know why I bother to set an alarm. The strict and repeatable daily regimen adhered to during my entire adult life has provided an innate intuition regarding the passage of time. Throughout the day, I can usually predict the current time within a few minutes, without glancing down at my watch, which thus serves more as a jewelry item than a functional timepiece.

Reaching my long, slender, right arm, first directly skyward, to stretch the shoulder joint, then horizontally outward towards the table, I instinctively hit the flashing red “Snooze” button on the illuminated cellphone screen, then immediately get up. This 10-minute stopwatch will dictate the next phase of my morning routine.

As I roll from my bed, the comforts provided by this cozy nighttime sanctuary quickly slip away. The mattress sways underneath me, the juggling of the waterbed adjusting to my shifting form. Meanwhile, the memory foam cover slowly returns to its natural, uncompressed shape, as my body’s weight is released. While this combination of crib customization solutions seems counterintuitive, the pairing provides a cocoon-like experience, which a butterfly chrysalis would be jealous of.

Sleep is important to me, so I spare no expense on nocturnal amenities. My sheets are expensive Egyptian silk, synthetic as opposed to natural, further optimizing on an already nearly perfect bedding fabric. At my feet is a quilted -grey and purple duvet cover, while a trio of matching color throw pillows lean against the wooden headboard. I always slumber alone in this massive king-size bed, which leaves plenty of room for purely decorative accoutrements.

I always sleep naked, like my generational ancestors, but utilize the adjustable heat provide by an electric blanket, which was not afforded to the cavepeople of old. Over the past few millennia, human civilization has made great strides with regards to creature comforts. No reason not to take advantage of these innovations.

My slippers are right where I placed them last night, perfectly parallel on the floor, right at the middle of the bed, toes facing outward. This orientation allows me to transition directly from horizontal to vertical without bending over.

Rising and donning this accommodating footwear, I shuffle across the shag carpet. The combination of cushioning sensations makes it seem as if I’m walking on fluffy clouds.

The motion sensors in the room, detecting my recent activity, initiate a series of mechanical and electronic operations. The window shades rise automatically, reveal not the actual outdoor environment, but instead a panel of flatscreens, which display a curated orange sunrise over rolling green hills.

Simultaneously, the white noise emitted through the hidden speaker turns off. Counterintuitively, this disruption of steady sound causes my ears to perk up intently, suddenly aware that the baseline buzzing they experienced over the past 8 hours is now gone. This sensation, akin to popping one’s ear on an ascending plane take-off, never ceases to surprise me.

Time for my morning exercise routine. In my youthful days, I was always pushing my body to its limits in any athlete endeavor, with predictable results. A perpetual string on injuries, ranging from menial to major, some of which still haunt me today. As a result, my older and wiser form has adopted a much more mellow methodology.

My motions are slow and methodic. I bring my lethargic limbs to life, stretching, twisting, and compressing the muscles in a choreographed sequence.

Once limber, I drop to the ground, boney knees in the soft carpet, and execute 50 modified push-ups, half with each arm. Per usual, my dominant right appendage makes this activity much easier on one side than the other. My dull adult life, especially my dull work routine, does not promote physical symmetry, or really any physical exertion at all, for that matter.

Content with my upper body exertion, I plop down into my favorite yoga position. The log. I’m face-down, fully elongated, the curly hair on my bare chest entangling with the wool carpet strands. This stoic pose is half meditative, and half prescriptive, reversing the kinking resulting from sleeping on my back all night. Despite the lack of motion for several minutes, I can feel the cartilage and bones of my spine realigning.

My final activity is a wall sit, 59 seconds in duration, with my back pressed firmly against the vertical barrier, my thighs and shins oriented to create a perfect right angle. When the burning in my quads reaches a crescendo, I extricate myself from the torture pose, just as the vibrating of my phone initiates again. An extremely efficient 10-minute workout.

Time to get cleaned up and prepared for the day. I barely break a sweat while exercising, but a shower is now mandatory. It’s the only way to maintain my hygiene, and fully wake up. But first I need to clear the pipes.

My sophisticated toilet has more bells and whistles than a modern automobile. Conducting my business in efficient and timely fashion, I utilize all the functionality of this complex commode. Rarely can so much be accomplished from a seated position. Cleansing jets. Drying bursts. Soothing pats. The final manual operation only requires a few small sheets of recycled, multi-ply, toilet paper.

As I rise from my perch, the water-less, flush-less, plumbing magical disposes of the offensive materials, both natural and synthetic, all decidedly manmade.

Having cleared unwanted excrement from my system, it’s time to get cleaned up. My morning shower is one of the most refreshing, freeing, and cleansing portions of my daily routine. As a result, I partake in this steamy bath at the same time every morning.

Entering the glass enclosure, the water immediately starts to rain down from above, while intermittent, high-pressure, sideways jets blast my ribs, buttocks, and hamstrings. I rub the 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner through my short, brown hair, stirring the thick slurry into a soapy lather with my dexterous fingers.

Letting this undoubtably white foam headpiece soak, even though I can’t see it, I switch to the environmentally-friendly cleansing solution. This comes in archaic bar form, but behaves decidedly differently than the cleaners of yore. Regardless of how vigorous my hand action is, this smooth oval orb sheds a defined amount if clear liquid: a blend of sanitizer, soap, and chemicals. With minimal bubbles, or texture, it’s impossible to determine how much liquid is being secreted. As a result, I go for a liberal and lengthy application.

Based on the high recirculation level of wastewater in this system, I have no compulsion about basking in the soothing streams. I’ve even taken to executing my hair grooming in the shower, a procedure which spans from head to toe.

Grabbing my bladeless, brushless, shaver, I deftly trim the key zones, starting with my single-day cheek stubble, then working downward. Despite the perpetual rinsing, there’s something awkward about trimming one’s privates, then moving on to the facial region. I’m sure there are some intimate bedroom acts, which I’ve unfortunately never been privy to, that don’t make such a distinction. However, in my mind, cleanliness is next to godliness.

Exiting the steamy sanctuary, I pull my moisture-wicking, water-repellant, towel off the conveniently placed rail. This fabric miracle simultaneously heats, dries, and absorbs; it’s truly a magical piece of cloth. Well washed, I transition to the other elements of my morning routine, moving with robotic precision and autonomy.

I brush my teeth, using a mint-flavored, baking soda-based, toothpaste. I could not imagine a viler combination of flavors, but I diligently suffer through the mandated minute of vibration each on the top and bottom, across both sides of the mouth. Next, anti-perspirant, gel-texture, deodorant is applied to the arm pits, and nether region. I’m skeptical that a viscous liquid can help mitigate natural secretion, but hopefully it can’t hurt.

Clean and comfortable, I move to my wall-inset dresser drawers, and don an article of clothing for the first time since I went to bed last night.

My wardrobe options are laid out to require the minimum amount of thought and discretion. My daily routine involves menial interactions, with a small number of participants, almost exclusively in a professional setting. As a result, the cloth, cut, and composition of my clothes is completely consistent.

I don a pair of boxer briefs, neutral grey in color. This undergarment combines the best element of the two most historically popular forms of male underwear. From here, my body essentially dresses itself.

A wrinkle-free dress shirt, under a sleeveless vest, finished with a clip-on bow tie: colored yellow, blue, and orange respectively. Tight-fitting white pants, which accentuate my boney knees, and are kept secure around my narrow waist by compliant elastic, as opposed to the essentially useless built-in belt. Faux-leather brown loafers, with mis-matched argyle socks, the red-hued pattern so egregious that no one will notice or comment. I’m not known for my fashion prowess, and rarely interact with other humans throughout the day anyways.

The mobile adjustability provided by suspenders, waistband, and ratchet-tightened laces, along with the fabrics themselves, ensure this ensemble offers up all-day comfort. The final embellishment is a fine metal chain, one end secured to an accommodating belt loop, the other to my prize possession, a wafer-thin cellphone device.

After donning my attire for the day, I move back into the small bathroom to take stock of my visage in the full-length mirror, which has automatically defogged in my absence. Not surprisingly, I look like I always do, a middle-aged man, clean-cut, in mildly flamboyant dress attire. Other than the slightly bold colors, it would be essentially impossible even for my close family to pick me out of a line-up of office minions.

Pressed and dressed, I move from the bedroom to the kitchen. Time for breakfast. However, it’s going to be difficult to find food in the dark. My automated lights have been on the fritz for months, but I’m not handy enough to troubleshoot the problem. As a result, each morning I resort to jumping up and down in the middle of the kitchen, waving my arms wildly until the bulbs finally engage.

Now illuminated, both physically and metaphorically, I move directly to the counter, where my liquid consumption station sits. Using my 1/3rd tablespoon measurement device, I put a scoop of chilled non-dairy creamer into my scaling decaffeinated coffee. With my finely tuned internal clock, there’s no reason to intake metabolism-altering chemicals.

Hydration procured, the next task is solid sustenance. While my physical location is based in the United States, my breakfast selection takes on a decidedly European feel. A well-toasted English muffin, covered with a generous layer of creamy Irish butter, and French orange marmalade, sugar free of course. This is the most cultured my mundane life gets.

As I chomp on this sweet biscuit, and sip on the bland coffee, I partake in one of my few vices. Social media consumption. On a tight 7-minute budget, I rapidly scroll through my carefully curated feed on my phone’s screen, the smallest in the house. Global news. Celebrity gossip. Political banter. Familial updates. The combination of imagery, sound, and text is more addictive than any drug I can imagine, even as an experiential prude. It’s clear from the targeted content that this programmatic learning system knows even more about my own preferences than I can articulate.

The only reliable mode of extraction from this overstimulation is an incredibly shrill buzzer, combined with a bone-jarring vibratory pulse. Instantaneous the screen goes black, pulling me from the hypnotic trance. Knowing self-control is one of my weaknesses, I’ve been forced to put strict mobile technology usage protocols in place.

My lunch intake is already taken care of. I get premade sandwiches delivered weekly, even though the shelf stability of this concoction could probably allow it to last several months. The combination of pea-based salami and almond cheese on gluten-free bread is parroted to be great for the environment, but not as pleasant for my innards. Apparently, small sacrifices must be made to ensure the greater good for society.

As I move towards the door, sandwich secured in a special biological pouch of my briefcase, something brushes against my leg. I look down affectionately at Speck, my robotic pet pig. The head portion of this plump pink object rotates upward, catching my gaze with a pair of glassy, clear eyes. The animal’s impossibly thin and curly tail oscillates back and forth, a display of devotion programmed into the software package.

I bend down to stroke the smooth metallic back, and am rewarded with a long “meow”. This robot is capable of producing over 100 different animal sounds, but my simple mind is content with the basic and familiar house cat settings. Rising again, I watch Speck waddle off on asymmetrical rollers, which impart a jerky shimmy to the mechanical creature’s gate.

Beyond companionship, which is debatably achievable from a mass of metal, plastic, rubber, and electronics, this unit serves another valuable purpose. Vacuuming the carpets of my apartment. Any technology that mitigates the need for boring household maintenance tasks is a winner in my book.

Amusingly, an inanimate object, which should represent the ultimate in hypoallergenic pet execution, is actually quite the opposite. The persistent churning of my lush carpets seems to distribute a steady stream of fiber particulates into the air. I would have returned this unit, except that by the time I realized this mechanical issue, I was already addicted to my new friend.

Since I don’t really have any actual acquaintances, Speck has become my closest confident. Granted, the conversation is decidedly one-sided, aside from the intermittent, soothing, feline noises.

Without the hybrid dust collection and humidifier system sitting in the corner of my small residence, my allergies would be relentless. These nasal reactions are bad enough when I venture out into the open air; thus, the stable sanctitude of my inside abode must be maintained.

Speaking of the outdoors, it’s time for me to brave the real world, if I plan to get to work on time. As I reach the door, I instinctively check the digital screen embedded in the wall adjacent to the metal handle. As always, this element displays the weather forecast, current conditions across the top, with ambitious, and frequently incorrect, environmental predictions for the rest of the day portrayed using bright icons.

It’s raining again. Precipitation seems to be a perpetual occurrence at this locale this time of year. As such, my outdoor garb is already hanging on a convenient hook above the automated meteorology unit. A one-size-fits-all hat, adjustability provided by a force-moderating headband. And a trench coat, which extends nearly to the ground, even on my tall frame.

Both apparel items are made of the same impossibly-thin, clear plastic, which gives the illusion of invisibility, and makes them surprisingly difficult to don, most notably the arm holes of the jacket. Eventually, I’m able to wrestle the gear on. The broad brim of the hat droops down, obscuring my vision. Fortunately, the magnetic closure on the front of the coat seals automatically, lessening the burden on my slender, but clumsy, fingers.

Stepping outside, I see my weather monitor is generally correct. The sky is dark grey, with precipitation somewhere between a mist and a drizzle. Not exactly a morale boosting climate.

Fortunately, the repellent plastic of my weatherproof garb effectively resists the onslaught of moisture. It’s trippy to see the water droplets being blocked by this clear barrier. Direct attacks from above spatter into thousands of tiny particulates on impact, while the residual streams of liquid create tiny rivers on the polymer surface. It’s as if my expensive dresswear underneath has a magic, impenetrable coating on its surface.

Ducking down, I fold my elongated frame into the interior of the tiny, electric, smart car. The windows are fully tinted, so dark that no passers-by on the road can see how contorted I am in this silly contraption.

Autonomous, electric vehicles have become all the rage, but few citizens realize that the power supplied by the plug for charging each night still comes from fossil fuel, courtesy of the natural gas generator plant located in the countryside. Out of sight, out of mind, apparently.

My job has both mundane and meta elements: creating marketing content for marketing companies. There’s an irony that I drive into the office each day, just to spend my entire time on virtual conference calls. I have a perfectly functional computer with robust internet access here at home.

Unfortunately, the bosses like their underlings to show face. Some form of power trip, no doubt. Therefore, I’m forced to venture out bright and early each morning.

As the electric engine quietly whirs to life, I stare blankly at the front door of my apartment, as the tiny car instinctively backs out the short driveway. This is the way I have started countless days in the past, and there’s no sign of any future deviation in procedure until the end of my existence. It’s a complexly simple morning routine, much like my entire livelihood.