You know what? Fuck jobs. Fuck big corporations that don’t care about anything else but money. Fuck them, because all they care about is doing the shittiest things they can do to keep the cash flow coming in. They treat their employees like depersonalized slaves that they pretend to care about and they pay hardly. Cut your hair, shave your beard, don’t wear earrings, your hair’s too frizzy, your shirt’s not tucked in. Fuck that. We’re all supposed to look a certain way and act this way or that to keep the customers coming back as we smile back irritation and become peppy high-pitched zombies, but for what? We serve food to obese people with oxygen tanks and shove this new food theme or that special down their throats to contribute to the disease that’s killing them as all the rest of us slowly and quietly suffer in this disease of a corporation. Fuck casino managers who take pride in prancing around in their pressed suits and turn their nose away from greetings; fuck them, because they’re stuck in this hell-hole for the rest of their life and they think that’s okay. They think it’s okay to run a place that sucks the soul from every person that walks in. Play this flashing slot machine in hopes of winning money, but don’t be alarmed when you’ve lost five hours and five hundred dollars and your children are starving. Eat at this buffet in hopes of feeling satisfied, but don’t be alarmed when you’re lying on a hospital bed because fat is blocking your arteries. Work for us in hopes of making a living, but don’t be alarmed when you find yourself wanting to scream at every customer that walks in front of you. Scream at them! And ask them what they’re doing here! Scream at the regulars, scream at the people you see walk around in this shithole every day, scream at them because no one else will! They’re wasting their life hiding from sunlight and throwing away life-savings as their player’s cards increase and they think that’s good. Fuck that, scream at them! Because they turn their nose up at you thinking they’re better than you because they have a platinum card and you’re just a hostess bringing them to their table so they can stuff the body that’s dying ever-so-slowly in all ways possible. Scream at them, because they’re living a life that’s deteriorating themselves and those around them and contributing to the corporation that contributes to other fucks and lowlifes. Scream at them.

And then leave.

Because you suddenly find yourself falling into the trap of only being here for money. Fuck that. Fuck holding onto the things that kill you in some way or another, whether or not they bring you something material to live by. Money will buy you food, money will buy you clothes, money will buy you the tuition and books to stay away from shitholes for the rest of your life, but money will also take so much away from you. Be where you’re happy, strive for it until you get there. But don’t settle, because people like platinum card holders settle. So fuck that. And scream.