Clean ALL the things. Twice.

Very few people actually like their jobs. Most people who say they do actually mean "I find this job preferable to other that are available to me."

When people ask me what I do, I reply that I wash dishes. Because I do. But what I should actually say is "People pile shit on me in a chaotic mess while I flail wildly and splash myself with grease-filled water."

Ok... maybe it's not quite that bad. On slow days it can be alright, but on the bad days, it's... bad. On bad days I want to burn and smash and generally act like a rampaging dragon.

It doesn't always start that way. I may clear my head on the bike ride over to work, preparing myself to face the massive, unorganized pile of dishes, silverware, and pans that usually (Though not always) await. I come in, calmly put on my chef's jacket and hat. A soothing song is running through the jukebox in my head.

Then for three or fours hours, no matter how busy it is, I am fine. Until something happens and I just... break. Maybe everyone decided to bring me their closing stuff all at the same time. Maybe there's three guys sitting around the oven, while the timer goes BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKER indicating biscuits are done... and none of those three guys can be assed to even turn the timer off. So I have to wash and dry my hands and butter and deliver the biscuits. Rage.

After I break I begin to rage. Except I can't direct that rage at people, so I direct it at inanimate objects. High levels of stress tend to make me kind of punch-drunk, so as I am cursing at the dish machine for cleaning things about as well as a sack of bull testacles, I am laughing my ass off.

That lasts for about two hours. Then I begin to just build a quiet rage. I may slam things. I may have a sudden outburst which I cut short almost as soon as it begins. But I still never direct my rage at a person, just objects. Which makes me seem fucking insane but at least not dangerously so.
Then I go home, clear my head and proceed to drink beer and browse the internet till morning, when I fall asleep.

Thats how my day was! How was yours?

The Government Individual

It's a lot different when you put it in terms of two individuals, instead of a faceless conglomerate and society. The next time someone says government rule is for our own good, tie them to a chair and hold them at gunpoint. Tell them if you don't you can't be sure they won't hurt themselves or someone else.

I burst into your house with an extremely overpriced tactical shotgun, laden with unneccesary gadgets costing thousands of dollars. You rise from your chair, startled, and make a dash to the doorway as I let off a warning shot. A pellet enters your skull and permanantly blinds you. Oops.
As I tie you to your chair, you remember how you loaned me all that money last year to buy that shotgun, and how I never paid you back. Taking your wallet, I pull out the cards and cash and stuff them into my own pocket, to pay for the cost of the shotgun shell and rope.
"What the hell are you doing?" you scream at me "This is my private property!"
I shake my head apathetically, forgetting that you're blind now. Sorry about that.
"Aerial reconnaissance and heat imaging shows you're making drugs and nuclear weapons in your kitchen. For the safety of yourself and others, your house now belongs to me."
You remember how you loaned me fifty grand five years ago for that drone, and how I never paid that back either.
"Thats my oven and microwave, dumbass."
"I say drugs and nukes." I reply smugly.
You say nothing. I take this as an admittion of your obvious guilt.
After I've finished tying you up, I enter your kitchen and make myself a sandwhich. As an afterthought, I grab a bandaid and plant it over the hole the shotgun pellet left in your head. That's my job too, afterall.
After a while, you ask me why I've come.
"To protect you from yourself, of course." I reply with a full mouth. Particles of bread spray from my mouth and land on your cheek.
"What the hell do you mean? I was doing just fine. Then you burst in the door and now I'm blind and tied to a chair."
"Oh sure," I reply, "You WERE doing fine. But sooner or later you were going to hurt yourself, or someone else."
"Thats rediculous. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself without your help!"
"It's for your own safety." I admonish, my voice chock full of sincerity. You start to struggle in your ropes, and I call my bodyguard to watch over you while I head to the drug store. You remember how you loaned me the money to afford the bodyguard, and buy majority stock in the drug store. I never paid you back.

Two days later I return with sedatives and give them to you. You lay back complacently as I turn the TV on to a news program warning of the danger that your neighbour could be cooking meth in their kitchen, followed by a picture of you. Drool slowly drips from the corner of your mouth, and I gently wipe it away with the hem of your shirt. Thats my job, afterall.
Deciding that you need a higher standard of care, I take a loan out on your house (You would remember how you loaned me money to save that bank from imminent failure, but your lights are out) and buy you a neck pillow. I take the rest of the money and use it to buy myself another bodyguard.

As we grow old together, I take more and more loans out on your property to pay for your care. After a few decades I've got a dozen more bodyguards, and have upgraded from sandwhiches to filet mignon. You've gotten stronger rope and five more neck pillows.
Eventually you die, and I sell your worthless property to some poor sap. Taking my bodyguards, I head over to your daughters house. Aerial reconnaissance recently showed she was cooking drugs and making nukes in her kitchen.

Pew pew

A thousand lives as tithe he claimed,
A battle won by lust.
No mercy given to those that day
Whom Shadow they called foe.

For darkness set, will darkness breed
Into the heart's fragile keep.
And when that kingdom's twilight sets;
A Shadow shall they behold.