The Blasted One herself knew she was irreverent scum, and her rear remains sore from the pounding Bud gave it. Thank you, Bud! And perhaps from the shameful soreness of sitting on that aforementioned rear doing nothing real.
And so The Blasted One learned the error of her ways, and therefore once again could refer to herself in first person rather than third. And so it came to pass that as I sat on my sore ass, I remembered what I had always known. That is to say, namely, that working sucks. And that it really, REALLY, sucks for that matter.
Yes, it does suck. It numbs the mind. It enhances the ability to lose oneself in any inane distraction that is not work. It creates a vacuum of thought where there is nothing but work. It demoralizes. It entraps. It becomes a necessity of life. One for everyone to hate and yet need. And yet allow their lives to become absorbed by it, as they need it. To fall into the wind-up pattern of work: come home from work, fall down exhausted from work, briefly make a failed attempt to distract the self from work, try to go to sleep for work, wake up for work, get ready for work, go to work, work. Eventually celebrate a weekend or maybe even two weeks away from work.
Work is a disease to train already icky disgusting people (as in all people) to be semi-sterilized and controlled members of society. Even the outcasts of society are expected to work and to be useful. But this is not a Jellyfish-condoned society. This is possibly not even a Mormon-condoned society, though I would not go so far as to say that. Or maybe I did say that. Did I? Chances are I at least implied it. I have recently been tainted by work. I have lost my mind. Again. But this time to work. And I hope that proper reverence of the Jellyfish will restore my mind. Anyway, this is work society. Or, no, that's not what I was trying to say either.
I'm reverting back to third person now. The Blasted One must go to work in the morning, but fortunately only for a few more days. Or so she thinks or at least hopes, anyway. She will there be an automaton and hate the shell who presumptuously uses her name (if not the name The Blasted One). She will be very sad and also very eager to escape. But she will later atone, or so (once again) Bud and this disconnected third person hope.
Operative J (and JS, but S is the other JS), ever The Blasted Bimbo