Memoirs of a Downtrodden Civil Servant\Slave

You would not believe some of the things I’ve seen.

I am a slave.

That is the sad truth of my existence. It is my station in life, and I’ve come to accept it. You preach opportunity, even have a country named for it. I, on the other hand… What kind of opportunity can I look forward to? What sort of career progression can I strive towards? None whatsoever.

Spare a thought for me and my brethren.

Yet, most of you will not. So let me tell you the horrors I face. There have been times when I almost gave up. Even times when I actually did, and just choked. But see! The sad irony of my existence! I spend my whole life putting up with your crap, and never do I get any appreciation. Au contraire (What, a simple man can’t try to be cultured? Hypocrites.) I get mistreated on the same level as some of the most downtrodden, insulted and hated people in history (I truly feel for you, Bieber.) But when I do give you what you want and try to die in peace, you spend enormous amounts of money to revive me. Fear the men in blue overalls.

I try my best to let you lift up my sad excuse for a toupée repeatedly (seriously, it’s supposed to COVER my bald spot, not cushion the rest of my head while making the hole so much bigger, what kind of a sadistic boss would buy this for his employees?) and then proceed to relieve your burden. And other times? Sure, you’ll leave my toupée on, but then you take ass-kissing to the next level. And let’s not even talk about the amount of shit I have to deal with. I’m amazed at times, that one single person can be so full of shit without exploding.

Sometimes it’s misdirected, and I end up being the unwitting source of the stink caused by your horrifying habits. And those of you who try to cushion the blow? You’re the worst of the whole lot. So afraid of letting others know what you’ve done, that you are content to just leave your shit there for someone else to have to deal with. And the number of times your vomit-inducing tendencies have nearly caused my death, I’ve lost count. Indeed, some would even liken me to an old whore, having been used so many times. So many times, in fact, that some of you even leave stains. Yes, you read that right. Stains. It’s disgusting, filthy, and the very thought of it makes me gag, but someone’s got to do the jobs no one wants, right? And believe me when I say that no one wants this job. I wouldn’t even wish this on my worst enemy.

And all for what? Lush riches? The adoration of the media? Hell, a good dental plan? Nope. The very nature of the job dictates that the better I am at my job, the more abuse I have to endure. I have every right to be angry, and I have every right to lash out and scream and rage at the people who use me,and then discard me like a forgotten whore.

Ok, deep breaths. Breathe. Calm down. They are not all at fault here. Some of you are nice.

But to the rest of you. Watch out. One day when I can’t take any more, and I explode from having had to contain my suffering from so long, you will definitely be the first to succumb to my wrath. And I guarantee you, that I will find you. … Or, more precisely, you will one day come to me of your own accord.

I live in Raffles Hall, in the 3rd floor toilet. I’m am the shining beacon of human failure that is located in the second cubicle from the entrance.

Please at least wipe down the toilet seats after you’re done, don’t line the inside with toilet paper and then shit without flushing, and for the LOVE OF GOD, please aim properly, you fucking asshole, whoever you are.

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2 Responses to Memoirs of a Downtrodden Civil Servant\Slave

  1. sarah says:

    Its a wonder how your mind works! Keep the interesting posts coming!

  2. sexysimran says:

    Hahahaha very funny! Not bad 🙂

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