It never gets easier.

This fucking job…

A punch clock on the soul. Start and finish, minute and hour. Ever closer to death.

I exist in definitions I’ve never found to be true.

For eight-ten hours a day, I become labels and employee handbook regulations. I walk through a door and become someone I am not.

The beauty part is that it all starts over again tomorrow.

I have dreams and aspirations. But not from 9.00 AM to 5.00 PM. Those hours I’m a drone.

Minute and hour.

For what? I don’t even fucking know anymore. You come to my house it looks like a goddamn Ikea catalog.

I hate my fucking nightstand.

I have nothing to show for myself outside of this time frame of work. Everyday I turn myself off for 8 hours so that I can enjoy the other 16.

My house bores me to tears.

So, I tell you this not to be depressing, but to tell you, don’t take it personal.

It’s a paycheck.

Now close your eyes.

You won’t feel a thing.

That’s a good girl.

Don’t flinch…