A lot of people where I work love their job. I don't love my job, I just tolerate it, because I like the money and only tolerating it will keep me sane.
I started when I was sixteen, and have worked on the grocery department, outside ''Portering,'' and now I'm currently located inside on checkouts.
I was thinking, I'm gonna stay at ASDA for another ten years, and then write a semi-autobiographical novel in Bukowski style, all about how I spent half of my life in a menial job.
Instead of calling it 'Post office'', I'm gonna call it ''PORTERING''.
In ten years, I'll probably be a ridiculously talented or severly burned out writer, so this asda shit could be like discovering gold.
I can compare how standing entrenched at my checkout is similar to what it must feel like to be a whore in Amsterdam, waiting for the next cock.
Fucking capitalism.
Yes, my semi-autobiographical novel is gonna be 334pages of me comparing myself to dutch hookers and promisculously splurging over fat chicks on my nights off.
I am very sardonic this evening.
-Michael
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