You know, working in stores that carry liquor along with food sucks enough without the retard who gets off work around 3 p.m. (still wearing the company work-shirt) and proceeds to buy alcohol three, sometimes four times per day. Plus, at one point, you’re so fucked-up your buddy drives you in. I would like to go to your place of work and call you an asshole in front of people—as you do in mine. But I don’t. I just smile as you count change on the counter, like a 12-year-old does when buying candy, lowering yourself in front of other patrons, who sneer and snicker as you pickle your liver and already-useless sponge of a brain—useless for everything except spouting “colorful metaphors.” It must be nice to have so much down time and nothing to do with it.
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