at some point, the bastard had enough.
climbed up on his desk while "maybe the last time" by james brown blared through the speakers,
and for a brief moment he thought, " this must be killing the science monkeys inside"
upon that he thought, "fuck em".
"maybe the laaaaaaaaaaast time".
the bastard is standing on top of shit swinging from the rafters, beyond caring and beyond his fear that it'll never get done on time.
all i know is i'm here in the box, spending my little boy's birthday once again working for the firearms industry and knowing that until this shit goes away, i can't shut down.
can't stop.
can't drink enough coffee.
can't enjoy the holidays.
don't get me wrong,
you see that i'll smile and laugh and maybe for a second feel something i'm supposed to feel at this time of year but, i really don't anymore. christmas won't come for the bastard until sometime around march when i see that kid's smiling face 2500 miles from this perfect storm the bastard calls a career.
i am a goddam machine. and i hate every goddam minute of it.
-the bastard
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