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.