Fast F*cking Food

Ramona's voice sneaks into my ear. She and someone or another have some inside joke and I keep entering it, unintentionally, automatically, through this deafening thing stuck to the side of my head. Ancient monstrous earpiece. Throughout this day, the different distinct voices will slowly merge into one droning buzzing harsh sound. One ear listens to one side of the universe, the other ear listens to Earth. Everything comes together in one greasy haze. I am instructed to enter the freezer. The door shuts behind me with finality and, even though I should be used to this by now, inwardly I freak the fuck out because my body temperature is already cooling off, my knuckles already aching and freezers are something frightening. I stand in the freezer, dumbfounded by the fact that I have loaded my brain with so much minute information in such a short time this morning, on such little rest, that I just forgot how to make a fucking taco salad. What the fuck? The taco salads are the easiest. But it seems that as the day wears on and I become more and more disgusted with what my life has become, the  smile on my face and the lilt in my voice become more and more convincing and true.



I can't help it. I love most of the people that share my job. I just really despise restaraunt work.



Somehow, though, I think Wendy's would make for a hilarious black comedy.



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So if you just read this and you're wondering 'Why the fuck did I just read this', let me explain that I have tried and tried to write anything else but all that comes out is sardonic humor about life's injustices. I'd be so glad to know that there are others out there, like me, intelligent and lyrical, who still remain wage slaves. Do you think I could take this somewhere? And more importantly, do you think I could get sued for not changing names and events around? I mean if I label it as autobiographical there's nothing they can do, is there? Help me out, please! FEEDBACK, y'all. Feedback.