This is your life and it's ending minute by minute

The Charity Worker:

You have a first class degree from a red brick University. At first glance, you appear first in line at the high morals bank. But you ignore the devastating social problems you see first hand in Britain. Because you favour the escapism of easily solvable issues in Africa.

Every second is precious and you second to a smaller room in a shitty basement flat after your employers refuse to second a motion to give you a second pay rise.

You enjoy working in the third sector, helping the third world, in your third job, on a third of the salary of a private equivalent.

The Designer:

You break through the career fourth wall and go forth into corporate blandness for the next four years. Your boss is pleased you’ve come to the fore and from this day forward you try to toe the line.

Your boss shouts after five years, “’Take your work up to fifth gear,’ I told you, not into the fifth dimension!” He threatens to sack you unless you reign in your creativity, “Take five,” he says, “and come back next week.”

The sixth time you come up with a sick idea that doesn’t fit the client’s market research, your boss hits your for six.

The Writer:

Your seventh notebook is stuffed with ideas. But you haven’t written a word since seven o’clock this time last week. You watch the rugby sevens world cup instead of studying the plot of Se7en and the dialogue in the Seven Year Itch.

You ate at around eight am, smoked an eighth of charis and wrote that scene in the atrium. You eat and after eight mint for lunch and wait for you partner to get home from a real job.

By nine pm, you are dressed up to the nines. “Nein!” shouts the Nazi war criminal in your ninth sequel to your only successful book, written in the 90s. You hate your life and wish you’d gone the whole nine yards at medical school so you could do something that mattered.

The Academic:

After the tenth time of asking you are once again refused tenure. After a decade of re-hashing other people’s ideas you tend to your thoughts. You’re colleagues won’t touch your work with a ten foot pole.

Of the eleven books you’ve written, none have an original idea. But at the eleventh hour lightening strikes! In the background, Arsene Wenger announces his first eleven.

Half a day later and you’ve written you twelfth book about the twelve disciples. This one definitely proves that the twelve signs of the Zodiac are wrong and being the twelfth-man in cricket is a waste of time. Your University calls you in for a dozen meetings and by noon you are fired.