Every day I wake up and think "Yes! Another day of being privileged". I get dressed, and it takes me a matter of a few minutes: I don't have to cover myself in make up because I already look great, being that I'm a straight white male. I don't have to make my skin look lighter to cater to the demands of the media, because it's already pearly white beautiful.
I leave my door, go to the tube station, don't even have to tap at the gates; my privilege just allows me to glide right through.
I get on the tube, pregnant ladies and PoC move out the way for me to sit down on the priority seats, and I manspread my legs out so far the whole coach can see the bulging privilege in my jeans.
Ticket checkers come over, and they just smile at me, give me a wink and pass on by.
I get to the office: don't have to do diddly squat. I'm a straight white male, so I just get my pretty secretary to bend over and pick up my gold plated fountain pen (which was awarded to me for being a straight white male) all day, as I keep purposely dropping it on my lion skin (his name was Brian) rug.
Then after a day of that, I go home and shag my maid, eat a steak and finish off with a bowl of truffles and cream, then smoke a fat cigar whilst laughing at my compilation of charity TV spots in my private cinema.
Then I get comfy in my silk sheets, breath in a deep breath of privilege, and go to sleep.