MaKeAoHcKM... My head was throbbing so badly that in despair I slammed my face on the keyboard and typed out this string of gibberish. If there really is such a thing as "MaKeAoHcKM language," it would definitely be the official language used to accurately describe the mental breakdown of working people on Sunday nights.
Today is July 12th, Sunday. I glanced at the time in the bottom right corner: 6:59 PM. I should be sprawled on the sofa, or at least going downstairs to the convenience store to buy a heated sandwich. But instead, I'm sitting in a room without air conditioning, staring blankly at the backend of a lifeless shopping platform.
The company's inventory system is acting up again. My supervisor won't even let me have a moment's peace over the weekend, frantically tagging me in the work group, insisting that I manually put all of the inexplicable out-of-season clothes from the Canadian national hockey team up for sale today.
I don't even know what Nick Holden looks like, and I don't care whether the Canadian team won the championship or not. If some clueless scalper would have the mercy to clear out all the Nick Holden jerseys piled up in this link, I'd be willing to kowtow to them through the screen. I really can't write any product description for "top-notch breathable technology." It's all nonsense. That stuff is just 100% industrial polyester fiber, and it feels no different from a thicker plastic garbage bag. We dump colorful plastic waste into the world every day, and then we try to package it in the guise of sportsmanship.
My right hand throbs with pain whenever I touch a mouse. Last week, while carrying a 30-pound bag of food to the stray cat shelter, the plastic handle on the bus cut a deep purple welt into my palm. Now, even typing the spacebar on the keyboard makes my tendons twitch.
If I had a car, I wouldn't have to squeeze onto the bus, and my hands wouldn't be ruined. But today is the 26th day without a car. The bastard owner of the repair shop's phone number is completely disconnected; the message tone is cold and impersonal. My car, like the HTML code that frequently disappears from a shopping website's backend, has physically evaporated from this world.
I've had enough. I'm quitting tomorrow. Or I'll just pour cat food on my keyboard right now and short-circuit the motherboard. Whatever.
Today is July 12th, Sunday. I glanced at the time in the bottom right corner: 6:59 PM. I should be sprawled on the sofa, or at least going downstairs to the convenience store to buy a heated sandwich. But instead, I'm sitting in a room without air conditioning, staring blankly at the backend of a lifeless shopping platform.
The company's inventory system is acting up again. My supervisor won't even let me have a moment's peace over the weekend, frantically tagging me in the work group, insisting that I manually put all of the inexplicable out-of-season clothes from the Canadian national hockey team up for sale today.
I don't even know what Nick Holden looks like, and I don't care whether the Canadian team won the championship or not. If some clueless scalper would have the mercy to clear out all the Nick Holden jerseys piled up in this link, I'd be willing to kowtow to them through the screen. I really can't write any product description for "top-notch breathable technology." It's all nonsense. That stuff is just 100% industrial polyester fiber, and it feels no different from a thicker plastic garbage bag. We dump colorful plastic waste into the world every day, and then we try to package it in the guise of sportsmanship.
My right hand throbs with pain whenever I touch a mouse. Last week, while carrying a 30-pound bag of food to the stray cat shelter, the plastic handle on the bus cut a deep purple welt into my palm. Now, even typing the spacebar on the keyboard makes my tendons twitch.
If I had a car, I wouldn't have to squeeze onto the bus, and my hands wouldn't be ruined. But today is the 26th day without a car. The bastard owner of the repair shop's phone number is completely disconnected; the message tone is cold and impersonal. My car, like the HTML code that frequently disappears from a shopping website's backend, has physically evaporated from this world.
I've had enough. I'm quitting tomorrow. Or I'll just pour cat food on my keyboard right now and short-circuit the motherboard. Whatever.
