i hate my fucking job

16 minutes into my shift as the company shitweasel and i hate my fucking job. i am under constant psionic attack from the AEC constantly asking what my pitboss is doing with the spent uranium he keeps buying. i don't know but they keep coming. i'm typing this on my cyberfuck mindphone right now while i run around snickering and trying to clean up. people drop their fucking memories everywhere and i keep tripping over them. tomorrow i'm ordering takeout for my manager preemptively as an intimidation tactic. if that doesn't pan out the sequel to the KGB is going to carve into my waxen form with a hot spoon until i am an exact replica of Abraham Lincoln and command me to re-enact the events at that fucking theatre until they figure out where it all went wrong or i melt in the sun. fuck this job. the beatles plays in the backroom. Ringo Starr is a weapon of psychological warfare and every time you listen to those records it sends your soul to the beachfront. he's a tape deck now repeating over and over until the heads wear to the wire and then they have to put him into a new mainframe. there's a neurodemon in everything these days. first i thought it was just cheap wine but my manager drinks Spite and all he does is talk about the demon rage. fuck him. i spit hot acid on his memories just to be sure they're dead. i hate my fucking job