Strata Nine-bazillion. Tedious misanthropy
Christ almighty.
Nobody appreciates how tiresome seething misanthropy is more than me. I had a vicious phase of it through high school that was only abridged be intense drug dependence. However, working for these assholes is just getting worse, so bad that I'm drifting back into the same irritable pissedoffedness with everything that I used to think was unique.
A strata council is composed of many people. [The name itself sublimely expresses how they think of themselves 'The Highest ______ Of Society'] And, to be fair, not all of them are fuckheads. It usually boils down to a select group of five to seven people, classic busybody types, who have big egos and big incomes that they usually don't really have to work for. How else would they have so much time to micromanage everyones housing situation? They're only real form of power is to complain about things. And since the world itself will grind to a halt if they personally aren't awake 23 hours a day finding more shit to complain about, there always must be more things to complain about no matter how trivial or fictional.
In some cases, they will delegate someone to busybody about on their behalf while they're out earning the money that bestows them the superhumanity of wealth. One that I know of- Call him "Bergomeister"- has a wife that is perfectly suited to this purpose. She's the kind of person that is in an obnoxious spree of wild Prozac gregariousness deepfried in condescension. This woman never seems to have anything nice to say about anyone that isn't in present company. Also, she seems to need to make you somehow into an inconvenience whenever she sees you. You're in her way, or you're crowding the elevator with your icky janitor self, or your cord is laying in front of her and she's suddenly become too feeble to avoid it, and so on. There is no way to prevent this because it's a pose that she acquires to put you into the wrong and single you out as a bad person.`
[For protracted daydreams I consume my imaginations of what I wish that I could do to the inhabitants of the building. The scowling church lady on four, for instance, who glowers at me whenever she sees me I would like to trap inside a hot pink room that contained nothing but eight inch artificial penises erupting from the floor, ceiling, and walls. The videotape of this event [wall-cam and dick-cam] would sell handsomely.
And Ranna spoke unto the Pharaoh of the Phuckheads: "Let my people go!"
Nobody appreciates how tiresome seething misanthropy is more than me. I had a vicious phase of it through high school that was only abridged be intense drug dependence. However, working for these assholes is just getting worse, so bad that I'm drifting back into the same irritable pissedoffedness with everything that I used to think was unique.
A strata council is composed of many people. [The name itself sublimely expresses how they think of themselves 'The Highest ______ Of Society'] And, to be fair, not all of them are fuckheads. It usually boils down to a select group of five to seven people, classic busybody types, who have big egos and big incomes that they usually don't really have to work for. How else would they have so much time to micromanage everyones housing situation? They're only real form of power is to complain about things. And since the world itself will grind to a halt if they personally aren't awake 23 hours a day finding more shit to complain about, there always must be more things to complain about no matter how trivial or fictional.
In some cases, they will delegate someone to busybody about on their behalf while they're out earning the money that bestows them the superhumanity of wealth. One that I know of- Call him "Bergomeister"- has a wife that is perfectly suited to this purpose. She's the kind of person that is in an obnoxious spree of wild Prozac gregariousness deepfried in condescension. This woman never seems to have anything nice to say about anyone that isn't in present company. Also, she seems to need to make you somehow into an inconvenience whenever she sees you. You're in her way, or you're crowding the elevator with your icky janitor self, or your cord is laying in front of her and she's suddenly become too feeble to avoid it, and so on. There is no way to prevent this because it's a pose that she acquires to put you into the wrong and single you out as a bad person.`
[For protracted daydreams I consume my imaginations of what I wish that I could do to the inhabitants of the building. The scowling church lady on four, for instance, who glowers at me whenever she sees me I would like to trap inside a hot pink room that contained nothing but eight inch artificial penises erupting from the floor, ceiling, and walls. The videotape of this event [wall-cam and dick-cam] would sell handsomely.
And Ranna spoke unto the Pharaoh of the Phuckheads: "Let my people go!"