Abort? (Y/N) _

There's nothing like pulling on a pair of improperly-dried jeans and walking into your dead-end job at a call center to make you appreciate gun ownership.

The majority of the floor is now aware that Gob has been fired and that I was the one who told him. Even the new agents who don't know anyone could identify Gob. He was always standing, making jokes, smiling, wearing a big-ass gold chain. And I was always nearby. If one of us moved to a new station, the other followed. If one wasn't in, the other worried. Two peas in a seething, self-loathing pod we were.

Everyone has been looking at me as though I had to shoot my dog.

I went out with Tron and Novel last night. We reveled in our wretchedness and got drunk. It was entertaining.

The day before Gob was fired, I made the conscious decision to slide. To just plummet. To fuck trying and to just live the lower-class dream -- cable and beer. Why go for more. It won't work out. The jobs for which I and my ilk are qualified are of the autonomous nature. Punch in, punch out, keep your vestiges of humanity to yourself. And I have gotten the feeling that, because we lack any substantial education, it is understood and accepted by all levels of society (including our own) that we are deserving of whatever misery we face.

The injustices doled out by mass-employers of the ignorant are only addressed when there is a spike in liberal guilt. Usually, this spike is prompted by some puff-piece on the news about a shoeless family being evicted before Christmas. Or Pablo, the illegal immigrant, loses his hand in a fry processor. Then there is action.

But that action has nothing to do with equality or human dignity. It is one born of condescension. It is rooted in the structures of power that are the very cause of the problem. The downtrodden must be protected, the poor dears, because they can't do it on their own. Let us bail them out again without altering any of the social ideologies that contribute to their condition. The silly bastards just can't take care of themselves. We will do it for them. That is why we are good.

I have yet to speak with the Project Manager. I have no desire to speak with him -- ever -- but he likes to circulate around the floor, chat with the agents, pretend he's one of us. I'm not sure how I will react if he dares to initiate any kind of conversation with me. It won't be good, though. I can tell you that.

Silly, silly bastards...