...a title. Whee.

My brain feels like someone took a shotgun to my head. I've been running myself ragged for two fucking weeks--going without sleep, eating one meal a day, working between 50 & 60 hours a week--and it's caught up with me today. My thoughts are sprayed out in a fine mist of exhaustion. Unable to gather them in to me, they swarm around in a buzz of anxiety and failing confidence. And for what?

For someone else. Someone else is getting rich off my effort. Someone distant and unconcerned, who so unnerves his employees they speak of him in whispers. These people will, I believe, do anything at all to make this man richer, in the hopes that his cast off scraps will, though only offal to him, prove valuable to them.

Fuck.... I can't even look at this corporate culture today. Hellswine rooting through a mud of cold semen and crushed fetuses in the hopes that Great Mama Demonboar will turn her corpulent and necrotic carcass and shit out a nugget of pure opportunity. Those who settle just for suckling get a mouth full of clotted blood and the snickering disregard of those who know where the real meal'll squirt out. And god forbid you decide not to wallow; they'll trip you up as you struggle to your feet and drown you in their filthy hellstew.

Ah, no. Waking nightmares and sleeping reason and gibbering potential on the day they tear down the fucking Vet. That stadium was younger than I am, y'know?

People shouldn't outlive buildings that hold fond memories from childhood. Especially when the building is of such mass and magnitude...