Second Verse, Same Rant as the First

If someone driving an SUV to Starbucks every morning before checking into their cubicle is truly happy with their life, please, PLEASE go ahead and shout it out loud for me, will you?

Maybe it's my mood today (PMS much?.... Yeah, I can hear you now, "Every month, bitch."), but I'm not feeling the Sport Utilitarian Love for my fellow worker bees with designer sunglasses. Shuttup, mine are from the $15 kiosk in the mall. So, let's get down to bid'ness, shall we? What's the point of this grind? Buy a home? Buy a bigger car? Get married and have babies? Pffft. Then some of us have a problem and need to get off the mothership.

Are you inhaling my poison here?

When my factory-worker mother and longshoreman dad sent me to school, it wasn't to work in a data factory and write a blog or two. I'm sure my dad would turn over in his grave if he knew the reality of the banal existence I've chosen to live. If he could look right into the depths of my hollow space that now occupies my presently bitter little heart, he'd wither. --Well, I guess he's already withered. Scratch that.

What-ev-ah. I'm sure I'll get over this soon. Watch for the next episode of Biatches With Hormonal Fluctuations.