My alarm clock goes off. Presumably on my iPhone 4, because it’s very important to me that I own the latest technology. I hit snooze. I can’t believe I have to get up by 9 a.m. to make it to my place of work before 10 a.m. where I am paid to be creative and knowledgeable about “the internet,” just in general.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I casually thumb through emails I’ve received since going to bed. I should have received something from Groupon, Livingsocial, Scoutmob and Gilt Groupe if I’m really late for work.

I take a shower. While doing so, I begin to wonder why I’m so bad at saving money. I then use my Bumble & Bumble shampoo and follow up with Kiehl’s face wash. I get out of the shower.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I check-in to my apartment on Foursquare, which I’ve named something cute and clever because for some reason I think people actually care what I call my apartment on a mobile application named after a children’s playground game. They don’t. I just wanted the mayorship, let’s be honest.

When I am getting ready, I decide between my Salvation Army/Buffalo Exchange purchased t-shirt that I’m so proud of (because it features the name of some business I’ve never heard of, yet it also has a great “worn a lot” consistency that I yearn for) and my J. Crew oxford. In no way do I find this ironic for some reason.

Before leaving, I peer out of the one window in my outlandishly priced studio apartment, whose price i’m okay with as it’s “just how San Francisco prices are” to see how the weather is. It is sunny, but I also know this means that it’s probably 52 degrees with a wind chill of “you’re freezing, why the fuck didn’t you wear a coat.” I do not bring a coat, as though trying to prove to the weather that I’m above it’s crafty trickery. I will regret this later.

Before I go, I pack my black rimmed Ray-Ban eyeglasses and put on my Ray-Ban sunglasses. I then pack my Macbook Pro, iPad, iPhone and Kindle into my Chrome messenger bag. The Timbuk2 bag is too small and makes my collarbone hurt because I didn’t splurge for the shoulder guard. These are things that I’m actually concerned about.

I walk to the Bart station, which is about 3 blocks from my house.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I check-in to BART on Foursquare, because everyone needs to know that I’m about to take public transportation. Which is kind of like the equivalent to doing something mundane, like taking a sip of a drink and telling everyone about it. Actually? I’ll probably check into somewhere for this reason later. To be fair: I’ve heard if you check into BART 10 times you get the “Trainspotter” badge. I don’t know why this is important to me. But it is. I need that badge.

I see someone doing something weird on BART. Probably a homeless guy or a drug addict or something, which are usually mutually exclusive. I’ll probably tweet about that. I can’t now: no service. But I’ll remember to when I get off at my stop. I bet people would love to read a humorous anecdote like that, maybe it will make their bad morning a little funnier or something.

I forget to tweet that, but forget that I forgot that.

I think about how it must suck to be homeless, because I really love not being homeless.

Around the Powell stop, I begin to play Angry Birds. I can’t beat one level, and it’s driving me nuts. Ultimately, I’d settle for one star. That’s how bad this one has gotten.

I think about grabbing a Peet’s Coffee before I walk to work. I realize it’s like 2 bucks, and I totally lost my mayorship to that guy and I’m way behind now, anyway, so forget it. Plus, for the same price I could get a pretentious cup of Four Barrel at the place next door to my office. That’s way more logical than the unlimited, free coffee at my place of work.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I get to work. I have a bowl of organic cereal with organic milk. A few people ask me if I’m hungover. For some reason in my profession, being drunk almost all of the time is hilarious and oddly endearing. It’s part of being “creative.” To be fair, it’s a fair question: odds are I’m hungover the majority of the time.

I go to my desk. I check a few websites that tell me about the things I need to know, in order of importance:

1) Has a celebrity died or cheated on their spouse?

2) Has a celebrity twitter account been “hacked” and were all the pictures of them naked “stolen”?

3) Is there a new viral video I should be talking about?

4) Is there a new band I should have heard about?

5) Check Twitter.

6) Check Facebook.

7) Wait, check Twitter again. Yep, I’m gonna re-tweet that joke that guy said.

8 ) Wait, now has a celebrity died or cheated on their spouse?

After I’ve checked the important stuff, I do some work.

I go to the kitchen to see if anyone is there to talk about any viral videos we’ve seen. Maybe we’ll even discuss an old film we liked. Like The Mighty Ducks. I loved The Mighty Ducks. Did you love The Mighty Ducks? We talk about how Muni is terrible. Because it is. Muni is terrible.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I do some more work. I attend meetings. They seem really long. Someone says something funny, though, so it’s okay.

On a conference call, someone we’re talking to says a buzz-word like “synergy.” We put it on mute and make fun of them.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I get lunch at some place that is overpriced. I check in to their establishment on Foursquare.

When I return to work, I will sign up for a social networking site that is new. It will involve:

1) Taking artsy pictures and sharing them with people.

2) Telling people about the music I’m listening to.

3) Telling people what I’m doing, right now, this instant, right now, this instant, no seriously, right now.

4) Telling people what I’ve eaten.

5) Doing all four of these things at once while then distrubuting this to Twitter, Facebook and Foursquare.

It’s probably a site made by a guy who knows a guy that I know. I’ll be jealous that he was smart enough to make this. I will presumably use said new social network about 14 times and then I will never use it again. But I’ll be able to let people know that, yeah, I’ve used that. I found it hard to get into.

I’ll Google something weird. I’ll wonder why so many other people are Googling that. I’ll know, because when I entered it into Google, it finished my sentence. People are funny. Wait, now I’m creeped out by how smart Google is.

I’ll think about the movie Terminator and wonder if we’re actually going to be overthrown by robots. Then I’ll realize that’s silly. Then I’ll Google “world overthrown by robots: possible?”

I’ll do a little more work. I will send emails. I will read a pdf or two.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

I will go home and be annoyed that Muni is so inefficient. I’ll tweet that, but in a funny way that is both relatable and honest.

Why didn’t I wear my f*#%ing coat?

On my walk home, I’ll consider buying a bottle of wine for when I’ll be writing ideas for work later. I’ll just have one glass.

I’ll look at Sutro Tower. I’ll feel lucky to be paying too much money for a very small apartment, because San Francisco is worth it in these tiny little moments.

I get home and call a few friends. We talk about how we want to travel. We’ll probably have a few locations in our back pockets that no one would see coming. We’re so interesting.

I’ll go out for a drink with a friend at a dive bar. It will probably ironically have very expensive beers. That will seem off, but I’ll just go with it.

I will read up on the news just in case anyone ever asks if I know about the world. It will go like this:

1) A country is at war, and I don’t know anything about that country. Wait, shit, that’s just a city. I thought that was a country? Wow. That’s a bummer on a lot of levels.

2) Something is on fire in San Francisco somewhere.

3) Baby pandas are adorable! Oh my god, why haven’t I ever been to see the pandas?

4) Blah blah blah Kate and William blah blah blah.

5) A large financial corporation did something shady, and they are having a confusing trial about it.

I watch an independent film that I heard about, it’s supposed to be really good.

I will have a second glass of wine . Shoulda seen that one coming.

I check Twitter.

I check Facebook.

My alarm clock goes off. Presumably on my iPhone 4. I hit snooze…

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 48: Music For A Day In The Life Of The Modern San Franciscan

Stream the whole thing at that link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

Dear SF Muni,

Fuck you.

Let me start over.

Fuck you.

You are the public transportation system. Say that out loud. You are, supposedly, the way I should transport myself. You know, to places like “everywhere” and “anywhere”. So let me just say I’m a little bit confused.

I like to think of you like someone I’m dating (I know, a truly novel and original metaphor for me). And a few months ago, you basically told me you were exhausted. A lot of people were complaining about you, and you felt like you needed a little space. Just a little more time to yourself, because we’d been hanging out too often. I was frustrated when you said this, but I’m a good boyfriend, so I listened. I was like, “Hey, sure, if that’s what’s going to make this work a little better, you change your routes up. I’m even cool if you come by less often than you used to…if that’s what you need…” When you told me you needed a little more money to cover the rent…I figured it was cool. You weren’t a deadbeat significant other, and when times got better you’d pay me back.

I’m done with your lies.

You show up late. When you do show up, you’re a total asshole. Your driver acts like it’s a serious inconvenience that I’ve burdened him with the “driving people around in a bus” part of his “driving people around in a bus” part of his job. I mean, I wouldn’t take a job at the ice cream store and sigh when people asked for a goddamn sugar cone. Also, I would like to figure out where you are training your drivers. Have they used brakes on a bicycle before? Same theory. Just ease up a bit. If you push it lightly, the brakes are going to work. There’s no need to play the “can I catapult Drew into the awkward guy who’s mouth breathing in sweat pants” game. That was fun when you were on time. Hell, at the beginning of the relationship? It was one of those weird reasons I liked you: it was kind of cute in some effed up way.

It now costs me two dollars to be late to everything. Which seems like a really shitty deal. When did you become the cable guy, telling me vaguely that you’d be over at my place sometime between the morning and roughly any time ever, including never? This is not a schedule, unless you are smoking weed all day and you totally got caught up in that Man vs. Wild episode where Bear got stuck in a swamp and ate a fish while it was still alive (which, I’ll agree with you, was fascinating, you’re totally right).

My favorite is when you’re late and act like I’m the asshole. Oh, you’re too full? That’s cool, there’s another bus coming within today and when I have my first child. When I do get on, I feel like I’m holding on to the railing for dear life. I get it. You’re angry. We are too.

It used to be endearing. The guy who looked like a meth head wearing one head phone not attached to a portable music device? This was even charming before. But when I’m paying two bucks to sit next to this guy while I’m also late to everything I ever want to do? Not that adorable. Stop being the DMV, who just gave up and decided to be terrible at life from day one.

You are a transportation system. For a major metropolitan city. Put on your big boy pants and start trying a little harder. Thanks.

Love,

Drew. And presumably anyone else who lives in the city of San Francisco.

p.s. The sex was never that good, anyway. I never thought I’d say this, but BART is better in bed.

Booooo. BOOOOOOO.