27 September 2010

Three days will kill me

I waited on the bus stop for half an hour. It felt like a year. The image of me having to wait on this bus stop every night after work is depressing the shit out of me. There is no shield for the rain and of course it's raining.
An Indian guy came and waited silently next to me. I've seen him before. He works at a nearby Lebanese cafe. I've seen the Lebanese chef being racist to him. I told him to stop it, he gave me a patronizing wide smile. Lebanese men! Switching between racism and sexism in less than a second.

The Indian guy keeps smiling at me, I wonder how I look to him. People often say I'm easy to read so he can probably tell that I'm slowly dying inside.
I just had an argument with the woman I work for. She wants me to come to work more. She's probably right and knows what she wants and needs and requires... She's one of those efficient professionals.
As soon as she demanded that I show up to work 3 days a week instead of 2, tears exploded from my eyes or at least it felt like it. I have this weird feeling when I'm really down that my body is turning into liquid: tears, vomit, piss, blood... Sometimes I can see proof of this transformation.
There should be work for people who can't sit in an office, work with no creativity or passion, follow a rota, listen to a boss, wait religiously for their lunch break then die slowly while waiting for their retirement age. This work is called art but too bad we can't always survive from it.

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