Customer service
Your quick, snippy jokes are becoming worn, their dullness parenthetically encased within your trite, pathetic humourlessness. We quietly notice as you root yourself in place, cartoonishly flailing your limbs about in a display of childish outrage; your empassioned disgust over a machine in disrepair that we cannot control, nor fix, becomes fodder for post-work mockery, but we aren’t laughing - only weary. Your wet, slimy lips move in command, demanding with greed “I need!” “I need!” “I NEED!” while we gaze at you with hollow eyes and a blank stare; why must we acknowledge and humanize you if we cannot even be granted the simple respect of someone knowing our own humanity? The mere fact that we exist? Instead, orders are barked at us as if we are trained circus animals, and I, well, I mindlessly obey because I sold my soul for an apron and a paycheck. Watch closely, the way your mouth muscles get to working, splitting with the cracks encrusted with spittle, to spew vitriol and wanton selfishness, as you villify those who have wronged you, although their only crime is that, for once, you have been told “No.”
Choking on a dry throat irritated from too much talking, I pardon myself and step away, and you glare at me, even after you have received your purchases, because in this global consumer economy, I am evil and you are to be revered. And we’ll work our underpaid lower class to the bone until they realize they are everything wrong with our society. That’ll show ‘em, the ungrateful little fuckers.
