6:00 AM: Rise before the sun, those weak-ass Seattle rays barely penetrate the gloom anyway. First task: brew enough coffee to fuel a Perkins Coie "in the zone" all-nighter. Evan39 can't function without his high-octane corporate blend.

6:30 AM: Scan the news for signs of the impending apocalypse. Homeless encampments multiplying? Check. Avocado prices skyrocketing? Check. Another "Just Jump" inducing article about the decline of Western Civilization? Check, check, check. Compile the most depressing headlines into a digestible format for Evan39's morning meltdown.

7:00 AM: Intercept Evan39's incoming emails, filtering out the usual "How dare you!" rants and thinly veiled death threats. Prioritize anything related to grocery store logistics, kale shipments, and potential lawsuits against the city for its blatant disregard of property rights.

7:30 AM: Prepare Evan39's power breakfast: organic kale smoothie (extra pulp), gluten-free toast with avocado (sourced from a secret underground bunker), and a side of existential dread.

8:00 AM: Escort Evan39 to his Tesla, ensuring the "I ♥ Capitalism" bumper sticker is securely in place. Navigate the treacherous Seattle streets, dodging potholes, feral homeless freaks, and the occasional rogue Antifa protest.

8:30 AM: Arrive at the Safeway grocery store, a bastion of consumerism in a decaying city. First order of business: assess the avocado situation. Are they ripe? Are they organic? Are they ethically sourced from a conflict-free zone? Evan39's guacamole dreams depend on it.

9:00 AM: Handle customer "complaints" with a mix of corporate jargon and thinly veiled contempt. "I understand your frustration with the lack of organic quinoa, madam, but unfortunately, the supply chain is experiencing unprecedented disruptions due to the impending collapse of late-stage capitalism."

10:00 AM: Monitor Evan39's social media feeds, deleting any comments that question his sanity or his commitment to the Seattle $ystem. Permit him time to engage in flame wars with those who dare to challenge his grocery store authority.

11:00 AM: Lunch break. Scour the break room for any edible substances that haven't been contaminated by the plebian palates of the minimum-wage workers. Prole scum. Settle for a protein bar and a side of self-loathing.

12:00 PM: Resume the Sisyphean task of maintaining order in a grocery store that's slowly being overrun by the forces of chaos. Replenish the kale chips, organize the kombucha, and discreetly dispose of any expired products before Evan39 has a full-blown meltdown.

1:00 PM: Attend a mandatory "diversity and inclusion" training session, where Evan will learn how to properly virtue signal while secretly longing for the days when white men ruled the world.

2:00 PM: Intercept a delivery of "artisanal" ketchup, ensuring it meets Evan39's stringent quality standards. No high fructose corn syrup, no artificial coloring, no hint of proletarian flavor profiles.

3:00 PM: Evan39 punts this on me: deal with a rogue customer who's attempting to pay with food stamps. Explain, with a patronizing smile, that this establishment caters to a more discerning clientele, one that appreciates the finer things in life, like organic kale and ethically sourced coffee beans.

4:00 PM: Prepare Evan39's afternoon snack: a small bowl of activated almonds and a side of despair.

5:00 PM: Escort Evan39 back to his Tesla, navigating the now even more treacherous Seattle streets, where the homeless encampments have grown bolder and the Antifa protests have escalated into full-blown riots.

6:00 PM: Arrive back at Evan39's high-rise condo, a sterile sanctuary overlooking the urban decay, homeless tents surrounding all corners. Prepare his evening meal: a carefully curated selection of organic vegetables and a side of existential angst.

7:00 PM: Review Evan39's schedule for the following day, ensuring there are no conflicts with his therapy appointments, his doomsday prepping classes, or his weekly meetings with his Perkins Coie colleagues.

8:00 PM: We both collapse on the couch, exhausted but exhilarated. Another day successfully navigating the Seattle $hitstorm. We pour ourselves stiff drinks and contemplate the futility of existence. I resist Evan's sexual advances, a repeat occurence most evenings.

9:00 PM: Light$ out. Dream of a world where avocados are plentiful, Chad loves Evan, kale is outlawed, and the Mahchine has finally taken us all out of our misery.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5614939&forum_id=2#48239611)

180.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5614939&forum_id=2#48239642)

By 11:00 PM, Evan has assembled several of the firm’s most devoted associates, who are practically catatonic from working 18+ hours straight. They’re still implementing his “final” handwritten revisions to the summary judgment brief due at 11:59 PM. It’s the 32nd draft of the day, and Evan promises—again—this is the last set of changes. The associates, collectively bleary-eyed and exhausted, struggle to decipher Evan's infamous scrawl, relying on his legal assistant, who’s stationed nearby to decode his writing with a calmness bordering on saintly.

As the assistant steps in to file the brief at 11:50 PM, she’s sweating bullets, recalling Evan’s exacting instructions to “double-check settings, avoid every possible freeze-up, and for God’s sake, don’t use Chrome.” She practically hears his voice in her head, issuing orders with the same reverence he’d use on one of his Holy Trinity poasts. But, of course, the screen freezes. A collective internal groan passes through the room as the associates exchange wary glances, each wondering if this last-minute hiccup might be the one to unravel the entire night.

Panicked, she sprints back into Evan’s corner office, practically shoving him aside to commandeer his computer and file the brief with seconds to spare. Just as she presses “Submit,” a screensaver flickers across Evan’s third monitor: XO’s Holy Trinity, with Boom, Mainlining, and Evan himself looming over the screen like a spectral council, casting shadows on the walls as if blessing this late-night act of perseverance and paranoia.

It’s all worth it for those holy extra billable hour$ lining Evan’s pockets.

The next morning, Evan congratulates the team, commending their “dedication” to the craft with tales of how the client’s in-house counsel was “blown away” by their late-night heroics (none of them have ever met this elusive client, let alone know their name). He throws in a motivational kicker, reminding them that partnership is “within reach” if they just keep up this level of commitment. The associates exchange resigned looks, barely masking their exhaustion, as Evan caps his speech with a reminder: the same client's appellate brief is due to be filed in two days, and he has not yet seen the first draft - "where are we on this?"

Depending on your paycheck, it’s either $eaTTTle’s crusader or a tyrant who’s just that much richer.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5614939&forum_id=2#48239748)

8:00 AM – Walk into Evan's Seattle Perkins Coie corner office, and Evan’s already deep in existential dread, grumbling about the latest news of “Seattle decay.” First task: research emergency street closures around his “favorite” Safeway grocery store — one he’ll spend the day complaining about.

9:15 AM – I'm sorting through 1,500 legal memos he’s marked “URGENT,” half of which are one-liners about Seattle’s "collapse." He’s reading over my shoulder, making sure I absorb every last statistic about the rising trash heap at the Safeway.

11:00 AM – Somehow, we’re now on an urgent side project. My desk is loaded with sticky notes, each detailing one of his theories about the “downfall of civilization” tied to this city’s street conditions, the crime rate, and various supply shortages. He seems to believe I’m taking mental notes on his life’s story as we work.

1:00 PM – Evan suddenly announces we need to “take this digital,” for the Holy Trinity. We scramble out of the law office and head to his high-rise apartment, surrounded by homeless ecampments, but where he is secure on the 35th penthouse floor. He leads me to a room he joking refers to as his "Command Center": a three-monitor shrine dedicated to Boom, Mainlining, and himself. Each monitor flickers between XO threads, Twitter news feeds, and latest poasts. He talks himself through the poasts, muttering that nobody else understands. The walls of the room are filled with post-it notes tying together Holy Trinity commonalities.

3:00 PM – He needs to “briefly poast” on XO and starts typing maniacally, something about a BBW Ranch 2024 "out of control" situation in Seattle and beyond, contributing to a “targeted decay” strategy, and toggling between tabs to add sarcastic comments on threads from Boom and Mainlining. I’m tasked with timing his replies for maximum impact.

5:00 PM – Wrapping up with a “required reading” list for me: notes on Seattle’s housing crisis, his theories on who’s “actually funding BBW outreach programs,” a ten-point rant on the sad state of public transit, and the latest corporate intel on ADM.

5:30 PM – Just when I think we're wrapping up, Evan decides he’s been too soft on “Seattle’s slow-motion collapse” and drafts a final memo for “future posterity”—a 5,000-word screed tying urban decay, BBW Ranch 2024, and ADM's "shadow ops" funding into one prophetic rant. He hands it to me for "urgent edits," reminding me that this "chronicle of civilization’s final days" needs to be ready by tomorrow, 8:00 AM at the latest.

As I leave, Evan gives me a solemn nod, stating: “Only a few of us know what’s really happening. Tomorrow, we go deeper.” He gestures to the Holy Trinity monitors, still aglow in his darkened apartment like flickering altars. “Be ready.”

Day One Down. Only 364 more to go.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5614939&forum_id=2#48239675)