#MOODS

Something Autobiographical
by Ruth Nineke


Available soon on Amazon

Bring Your Tits Out

I hate having to work for someone else. I want the easiest way out possible with the shortest amount of input time and the largest possible payout. 

Why does employment have to feel like slavery? Why do people sacrifice so much of their time and lives to be mistreated, underpaid,  underappreciated, and for the most part completely mentally defenseless against their own servitude? 

People shouldn’t hate going to work. They shouldn’t hate their jobs and their coworkers. People shouldn’t feel bound to their employers, nor should they be afraid of them. 

People shouldn’t feel like they’re jeopardizing their sanity,  morals, or happiness to earn just enough to pay for food and shelter to sustain them to continue going to work. They shouldn’t feel like invisible, nameless, soulless and expendable pieces of a puzzle which doesn’t advance their individual humanity but simply maintains their service to a system that benefits only a super wealthy minority – whose only “work”  is to create subtle system-wide variations to manipulate the emotions,  ideals, and actions of the working people. 

I was so fucking fed up with being a waitress,  especially when I knew the real power,  and wealth within the restaurant system was behind the bar.

I hated people coming up to me and trying to engage in the smallest, least possibly mentally stimulating chit chat. I was exhausted of unattractive, sweaty, overweight, small-dicked and pock-faced men constantly trying to touch me and tell me I’m beautiful.

I’d hit my endurance wall for my balding, and bigoted former boss’ horse-faced girlfriend passively and poorly trying to maneuver information out of me, and her palpable distrust and delusional insecurity that I wanted him anywhere past one full-blown morning on his black satin sheets, and a two hour nap inside blackout blinds. 

I had become insulted at the idea that someone so blind to her own potential and beauty could ever assume I was as pathetically attracted to anyone as Napoleon, dishonest, and slovenly as he was. 

I resigned from being pushed around by a man child with sausage fingers who waddled into and out of his overpriced, over-sized, and overcompensating big black Tonka truck, wheezing the command, “Bring your tits out.”

Fuck fearing the economy. I might be a loose lush party girl alcoholic with abandonment issues, a closet writer on extended creative hiatus, but I had to be better than that.



 

 

 

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