Ugh. The doctor just made me sign a waiver just in case I die. It’s time for the injection in my neck, and the doctor places the mask over my mouth to put me under. That’s when the goldarn alarm goes off. The precise moment in my dream where I’m going under I wake. Is it only Tuesday? I’m disgusted and frustrated. Now instead of dying from a medical procedure, I’m staring down the barrel of eight hours of labor.
I work in a cesspool. A place devoid of decency, compassion, or intellect. Where every person is a part to be replaced and if a robot can do it, it does. The robots get treated better, though. They cost more. Also, if I’m lucky, I get to hear all about drug use, philandering, drinking, trucks, hunting, and cravings for the best fast food burgers. Maybe some sports, but not likely.
Am I grateful for my job? Short answer, no. I will be when it serves its purpose and helps me to achieve my goals of not needing it anymore. Anyway, it’s only Tuesday, therefore looking to the rest of the week, I’m disgusted and frustrated. But I’m going to write and query tonight, maybe that will help.