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Each week, Man Magazine asks an ordinary man to keep a diary of a typical day. Here is our latest installment.
October 9, 2023
7:30 A.M.—My alarm sounds. I grab my phone and glance at the news. Congress is debating the Pentagon’s budget today, and I am reminded that spending on costly military ventures contributed to the Roman Empire’s economic collapse.
8:30 A.M.—I hop on the L train for my commute to work.
8:32 A.M.—It occurs to me that if the L were a subway in the Roman Empire it would be called the 50 train. I chuckle.
9:14 A.M.—I arrive at the office. Everyone is in the kitchen, where Greg’s birthday doughnuts have largely been devoured. Surveying the remains, I quip, “Geez, this place looks like it was sacked by the Visigoths.” No one responds.
10:30 A.M.—My boss comes by my office to discuss a proposal I submitted. He tells me it’s too vague and that he needs something more concrete, which makes me think about the Roman Empire’s revolutionary use of concrete in its infrastructure.
12:45 P.M.—I eat lunch with my co-workers. Linda, who is seven months pregnant, says she can’t decide what to name her baby. I suggest Vespasian or Caligula, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. “Vespasian or Caligula,” I repeat, loudly. Linda says she’ll think about it.
2:30 P.M.—Big meeting with the C.E.O. We’re on the cusp of acquiring a lucrative new account, and everyone is discussing our strategy for how to close the deal. The C.E.O. asks me for my opinion, but I’ve been daydreaming about gladiators and have no idea what we’re even talking about. In my defense, in my daydream the gladiators were fighting each other with fire swords.
2:54 P.M.—The meeting is over. My boss pulls me aside and tells me that my performance has been suffering. I explain to him about the fire swords, but that makes him even more upset. He tells me I’m fired, which has me once again thinking about the fire swords.
6 P.M.—I’m out to dinner with my girlfriend. She says we need to talk. It quickly becomes apparent that she’s breaking up with me. I ask her what I did wrong, and she says I talk about the Roman Empire too much. I ask her how often she thinks about it and she says never, which is obviously a lie. We argue for hours. My tears flow like water through an aqueduct.
10:17 P.M.—I leave the restaurant. Dejected and alone, I aimlessly wander the streets—a vast network of roads, much like those which traversed the Roman Empire, in that they were also roads. I am deep in thought about Roman roads when I am suddenly struck by a pickup truck. Bystanders rush to my side. I touch my torso and my hands are covered in blood. “Et tu, Brute?” I say, nonsensically. “No, my name is Doug,” says a bystander named Doug. I die.
10:23 P.M.—I am welcomed at the pearly gates of Heaven. Figures from throughout human history are there, and I immediately spot Galba, the sixth emperor of the Roman Empire. I introduce myself as a big fan and he responds, “Shit, one of these guys again.” He gets up and says something to a nearby angel, who glances over in my direction. They shake hands. The ground suddenly disappears beneath me and I plummet through the clouds.
10:48 P.M.—I find myself lying on the ground in a dark cavern. My arms and legs are bound. A demonic figure approaches and tells me that for the rest of eternity I will be scalded with irons hotter than the sun every time I think about the Roman Empire. As soon as he says the words, I immediately picture the Pantheon. Unimaginable pain courses through my body. I think, This must be what the Emperor Elagabalus felt like when his body was mutilated by the Praetorian Guard, and am immediately scalded again.
2:45 A.M.—I’ve been in Hell for about four hours and haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Roman Empire for more than ten seconds. The demon has become exhausted from torturing me. He grabs a towel and a Powerade and sits down in a folding chair. I no longer have the ability to speak or move. I have nothing to do except think about the Roman Empire. I am in Heaven. ♦
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