Books had more spine than her.
Any time I want to cry, I go to the kitchen and start cutting onions. Is it cowardly? Yes, maybe, but I cannot afford to let my guard down. The bearded dragons will take advantage of me if I do!
They’re tough little buggers. They cry only when they need to clean their eyes. So practical! Am I practical? Hell, no. I eat their dust in that department!
If I do cry in front of them, they glom on with their tiny straws and start sucking me dry from my tear ducts. I nearly died the last time that happened!
I will not thank God for CCTV. CCTV is the Devil’s work. Or God’s work. Perhaps they’ve collaborated on my humiliation.
Every day I enter the shit hole that is my work space and plop my bottom into a saggy arsed chair before a bank of dull, flyspecked screens. Maybe some people feel like God (or the Devil?) when they’re spying on and controlling human beings from such a vantage point, but I sincerely and wholeheartedly hate this. I would not be here during a pandemic if my job hadn’t been deemed an ‘essential service’.
Honestly, why do people scratch their genitals when they’re the only ones in the lift? Why do they check for nostril hairs in the mirror? Why do they do this whenever they damn well feel like it? And do they think if they spoil the air that their mask will make them invisible to whomever enters the lift next? I don’t know what they’re eating but it smells worse than my own ungodly clam after a session on the exercise bike. I just don’t need this shit.
It’s clear that they’re not computer scientists, aeronautics engineers or high powered executives. They’re human-sized babies. Frankly, they can’t even open a packet of potato crisps without committee approval. And the aforementioned masks? Don’t get me started on the frigging masks! Those thin strips of fabric deprive their tiny brains of oxygen and common sense. They end up with nothing in their heads but a basket of fucks not given. What other explanation could there be for their flagrant disregard for my territory?
Anyway, it may be a minor point to them but not to me. They’re always mucking shit up and I’m forever doomed to supervise it. The best place for my shapeshifting is in the lift, so how am I supposed to bear this ignominy? It’s enough to make you howl in despair…
I used to be yakuza but not anymore. I was kicked out because of a tattoo.
I wanted to compose a tribute for the Oyabun, a haiku to celebrate his heroic exploits and boundless charisma. Endowed with this as a tattoo, I would be showing him the gravity of my devotion, my unquestioning firmness to serve him unto death.
Unfortunately, my handwriting sucks so the tattooist misread the haiku. Instead of the kanji for ‘handsome’ he tattooed the kanji for ‘unpleasant’. You can see how the fault is mine.
Or maybe the Oyabun didn’t like me showing him my balls?