I detest my job. This pretend life, this play at being an adult is losing all amusement. I only do this for the cash, and this is making me little better than a whore. I am overworked, underappreciated, and my efforts above and beyond only ever invite criticism. And it totally serves me right. This is not a life, and I have been far too lazy in indulging it for so long. I am lounging in comfy armchairs, sinking ever further into them. Time to leave the velvet clad prison, to where the air is cold, but at least moving.

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