I was going to write a really, fun, article about customer service but unfortunately I can’t because I may possibly work in a role that involves both customers and service. This really fucking irritates me because I live two lives. One life is based on hard work, excelling myself and pushing myself to the limits as I forge my way through a career; eventually to enjoy a salary that allows me to buy a new car, a house and have a family holiday once a year. The other life vomits at the thought of the above paragraph even existing. It thinks that most people are incredibly small minded and wants to fill its own life with art and stimulation and basically screams at the though of having to restrain itself. It is pure chaos.
Sometimes in my day job I find my other life giggling at the thought of the utter mischief that it can cause. It wants me to simply play with the world and it demands that society should play along with it. I can’t even be specific about what I want to do because the sensible part of my brain tells me that I’ll get in to trouble and mess up the sensible part of my life. The part that pays the bills and allows me to write this very article.
This dichtomy is harming me. I know that I have responsibilities but part of me wants to be a bit, well, Charlie Hebdo. I want to pour the contents of my corrupt soul all over the world and let people see if they can find beauty in all the chaos. The sensible part of me reminds me that there are a lot of poor artist out there and that I actually enjoy the quality of my life currently.
And so I sit here writing an article that highlights a problem but that cannot provide a solution to it. Maybe the universe is preventing me from allowing the release of my inner self – perhaps it’s too dangerous. Society would hate how I think – I’m secretly far to open minded and far too liberal to even fit into the world order properly.
Hmm. Rambling. I guess all I can say is that my creativity is stifled purely because I can’t talk about a goat fucking a horse over the rotting corpses of Adolf Hitler and Margaret Thatcher. Maggots pouring out of the decaying eyeballs of screaming children and falling into a chalice held up by a mutated band of bankers who have merged with pigs and fornicate over the savings of the poor. The poor who have to watch as the whole scene is repeated in front of them over and over and over and over…
Yikes. Don’t know what happened there. Best have a shave and tidy up. The Jones are round for dinner Friday.
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