bullet

It’s official, I’ve been a corporate whore for a full year now. Swallowing everything like a pro, including my pride.  Strutting my stuff and working my junk to the moaning pleasure of my clients and my Corporate Mother’s accepting smile. She just approved my performance with glowing reviews, but bitch slapped me with no greater share, no raise. And as she hit me again said “you make me do this, and now you will also pay more for your insurance”. Oh don’t pout, the black eye will go away, you know I love you, you are the best. But it’s all your fault, you just need to recognize your place”, she said, while pulling up her panties.  And I smile at the…praise. Sickening.  Daily, I can’t stand the person in the mirror. I can tell that I have been exposed to the infection, the zombie virus. I’m beginning to feel….nothing, not caring even as my soul drains away. I awake every morning and hope that someone will put a bullet in my head before it gets too late. But then sometimes I think it already is.  This is not where I thought I would be. All that education, all that hard work. Yet I can’t seem to formulate a plan of escape. That’s not like me, inactivity, inertia, apathetic. I’ve always been able to foresee the different paths and choose the right one, or at least one, for me. Yet now all is in a fog, the walls of this maze are very high, and I am dumbfound by the enormous ignorant culture that is attempting to chew me up like fodder. And I should be “grateful to have a job”. Which, don’t get me wrong, I am. Well at least sometimes. But sooner or later, that just becomes a threat. And not only are threats non-inspiring, I don't respond well to them. Yet here I am. I need to get back to my art. I wish I could pick up my camera without feeling ill….shit, what a truly whinny asshole I’ve become. Chalk up another loathsome character flaw.  Damn, I’m going to kick the shit out of that person in the mirror, just out of spite. Oh well, all in all, it’s just another rainy Monday. I think it will get sunny later.