Mr RAF

I really want to tell my boss to go fuck himself as I know inevitably he is only going to do the same to me. It’s not an engrained paranoia but more a simple and cold business reality and business has always been a grimy place to be, so many lies hidden within those pinstripes. I feel as if I am a puppet, much the same as most I guess, but most, do not have their boss peering through the window or knocking on the door, most do not have to put up with mood swings that should only be attributed to severe menstruation or crystal meth addiction not that of a pub landlord. Once again his simple presence has left me with a dirty feeling that I am finding hard to shift, that slimy feeling of spending too much time near or around those that are directly responsible for paying my salary. At times, especially now, I feel no more than the salt whore I am, clutching the grains between my clenched fingers, hanging on for dear life hoping not to lose any but just like water eventually they all disappear, what is left is barely enough to season my chips.

My secret drawer is becoming fuller, close to overflowing with the evidence of my sins, torn and ripped, plastic and empty and resembling that of the monster it has become than the drawer it always has been. It’s endemic of this situation I find myself in, perhaps a case of borrowed time. As usual it may seem just waiting to be screwed and fucked over once more, protection pointless, wasted, a bore of ones time, living, pretending, hoping that things will get better.

I find myself miserably lost within the mis-management of others in such a small environment that means I am mis-managed and feel like a sheep without a flock. I wait for a degree of normal, rational decision making to take hold but instead each horrible incident is followed by another of even bigger magnitude. My boss who is completely oblivious to the fact that at times he is very bad at his job makes decisions that make my life uncomfortable at best and currently untenable and almost a severance is necessary. I sit and lose myself within the magic of the remastered copy of Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles wishing for a simpler time and one in where I had followed the music rather than this humble and shallow existence. I try to fit in but no matter how hard I try I simply do not want to.