19

I had the worst job of them all, I found out. I had just unpacked from a trip to Santa Columbine which, you know, doesn't exist because I'll be go to hell if I'm going to tell you SHIT about my adventures in great detail, and had just put my things away when I was dragged to the convention floor and placed on top of a pedestal after it was determined my present employment fucking blew primates. I made the mistake of asking how in the hell they came to that conclusion. Each person introduced themselves and told me about what they did for money and after the 2nd person I finally lost it and violently attempted to break my own neck.

Needless to say, I failed.

I returned to my job, which was reading every spiral pad of poetry that was presented to me. If it was written with a pencil onto 3 hole punch notebook paper, it was REQUIRED that I read the motherfucker. Not love it, not hate it, not judge it. Just read it. I was not allowed to run away or attempt suicide. I was allowed to swing a shovel at whomever felt brave enough to bring me my lunch, which passed the time.

I guess I ran out of lives or missed the 1-up or didn't enter the correct cheat code fast enough because I found myself outside in the sun, dazed. I really didn't feel the need to ask why, so I didn't, and went back to washing the pencil lead off my hands.