I gotta' find a way to con the government into financing my full-time student status on the cheap Wall Street. Retail needs to take me to the balls, gag, and then stroke me off with the thick spit that comes after. Is there a scale for how disgruntled you can be? I'm definitely at either a straight 4 or three frowny faces. Don't these vile gashes know I'm a special fucking snowflake? How inconsiderate!
I pop half-stock reading some middle-aged PTA quim get deft about Austrian economics. The basic idea is that this shambling mass of Cheeto-stained humanity takes the beef jerky out of its ass long enough to shove up a stick regarding the corporate grist mill, i.e. the market self-regulates? Every day I've punched that clock this week has been an exercise in spreading to receive for the well-intentioned apologies of my lower-corporate toad of a boss - the guy's a good dude, but I can seriously watch his dick shorten with my naked eye every time he opens his mouth anymore - as he passes along the edicts of the Elder Gods. Do more with less to get less. Yes, we shit in the lemonade. It's for minerals and stuff.
Someone wants me to believe there's a hive-mind compassion that just hasn't manifested itself? My gainful employment administers from the Wal-Mart playbook, and look at those eager rapists. You think Jeffrey Q. Fleshlight gives a fuck about sweatshops, fair labor, quality of life, or proper pay? Nay mi'lord, that fat mouthful is in it for 5 dollar blue jeans and the sweet bliss of stroking his sweaty meat through the hole in his pocket staring at products splayed with Hannah Montana's face while his wife and step-daughter browse junior miss.
It's a farce. Sometime during the show, someone crip-walked up with a big, shiny knife and commenced to stabbing us all as a big, metaphorical collective. The insanity of it is that when a few of us stood up to say, "Hey, dude, don't stab me! That's so uncool!" all they had to do is say, "Dude, it's totally cool!" before the rest of us chimed in with, "Git r duuuuuuuuuuuun." Somehow, someone managed to weave into the social narrative that paying someone to work forty at a rate that's beneath the cost of living in an area is acceptable.
It's endemic. All there is to be disgruntled for a bit, then come home and be happy. Which isn't terrible, that's why I'm only at a 4. I just need to find a way to jack off and get paid.
Will pose in your grandma's bra for cash to finish my novel! Or any of that other kinky shit you keep cobwebbed upstairs!
I pop half-stock reading some middle-aged PTA quim get deft about Austrian economics. The basic idea is that this shambling mass of Cheeto-stained humanity takes the beef jerky out of its ass long enough to shove up a stick regarding the corporate grist mill, i.e. the market self-regulates? Every day I've punched that clock this week has been an exercise in spreading to receive for the well-intentioned apologies of my lower-corporate toad of a boss - the guy's a good dude, but I can seriously watch his dick shorten with my naked eye every time he opens his mouth anymore - as he passes along the edicts of the Elder Gods. Do more with less to get less. Yes, we shit in the lemonade. It's for minerals and stuff.
Someone wants me to believe there's a hive-mind compassion that just hasn't manifested itself? My gainful employment administers from the Wal-Mart playbook, and look at those eager rapists. You think Jeffrey Q. Fleshlight gives a fuck about sweatshops, fair labor, quality of life, or proper pay? Nay mi'lord, that fat mouthful is in it for 5 dollar blue jeans and the sweet bliss of stroking his sweaty meat through the hole in his pocket staring at products splayed with Hannah Montana's face while his wife and step-daughter browse junior miss.
It's a farce. Sometime during the show, someone crip-walked up with a big, shiny knife and commenced to stabbing us all as a big, metaphorical collective. The insanity of it is that when a few of us stood up to say, "Hey, dude, don't stab me! That's so uncool!" all they had to do is say, "Dude, it's totally cool!" before the rest of us chimed in with, "Git r duuuuuuuuuuuun." Somehow, someone managed to weave into the social narrative that paying someone to work forty at a rate that's beneath the cost of living in an area is acceptable.
It's endemic. All there is to be disgruntled for a bit, then come home and be happy. Which isn't terrible, that's why I'm only at a 4. I just need to find a way to jack off and get paid.
Will pose in your grandma's bra for cash to finish my novel! Or any of that other kinky shit you keep cobwebbed upstairs!
Angry literate folk make me oh so joyous. You keep me entertained
ps... pervy comments are always welcome!