I can’t stand the heat. I have beat this into the skulls of my superiors a hundred times, yet they continue to treat me like a coward because I don’t have the power to stand outside and burn my hide in a hundred degrees. My pleas to switch to some other job besides slinging bags for old hags that complain I am going to crush their bread, although I would rather beat them over the head is met with near threats. My ideal job of making the bread instead is being held over my head like a carrot over a donkey’s snout, is all about my intolerance to the sun’s rays. “It’s hot in the bakery.” “If you can’t do carts, you can’t be in bakery.” “Is it hot as outside?” I asked my cohorts and friends in this minimum wage hell where we sell the bread, they said no. A resounding no.
But still the carrot swings as the overlord sings. I want to say, want to yell, “You wanna know the reason I can’t stand the heat? I take medicine that stops me from hearing the voices, starring into the darkness. Can your brain even process what it’s like to see faces shift off a skull? Or see an invisible snake trace its way through the ground like a quake? Can you imagine feeling so thirsty and a nasty churning in your gut all the time? Now do you feel like swine? I have to take pills to live with my mind.” But he wouldn’t even care were I to share. I am not even there, I am just another drone, one prone to phone in and call out. Well I am about to fall off the Earth. Besides, what is one bagger even worth?