Wage Slavery Eats you Alive.
It Looks like I have been taken hostage by BIM, some other department has fucked up beyond belief, and as a result I have been imprisoned in this fucking flourescent light hell for the next two weeks.
These bastards are trying to make me work seven days a week.
It's not going to happen unless I get confirmation of double time, and I don't care which upper echelon executives pay review I fuck up.
So as a result of not being allowed to actually have a life for the next two weeks (that's their forecast so far) I will more than likely bar the odd work of fiction, not be posting much on the blog. In my experience you have to have a life in order to be able to write anything of interest.
The best you can hope for is extended descriptions of torture of rich fucking executives. Perhaps some kind of future Anarctopia where Antoin Artauds "Theatre of Cruelty" has mutated into a cross between the Chinese cultural revolution, Big Brother and an Arms fair. It'll be blood and gallons of it, the twentieth century days are back, the old days, the bad days. I can almost see the office workers screaming, waving burning torches, dancing a wild naked revelry about the corpses of suits nailed eyeless and bloody to the bonnets of their Mercs. The cars are turned upright, glinting silver and red in the cold winter sunshine.
I close my eyes and smile, imagining the sound of tattered clothing flapping in the wind.
Peace and Hope
News just in: As a result of a self appointed, though well meaning editors comment, some of this post has been changed to protect the incredibly fucking guilty.