Burned out

The bleakest part of my day is when I slide my identification card into the time clock to begin my shift.It is a struggle to deal with the annoying fact that I am a college educated man working a manual labor job that offers no opportunity for career growth. Stockkeeping is the exact definition of a dead end job.

It takes all that I have to put on my McDonald's-style uniform and trudge into the hospital without unleashing all my frustration and contempt in a maniacal scream.It takes a great effort to tolerate the rampant stupidity, indolence, and incompetence of my workplace without my head popping like a balloon.

This job is slowly, steadily, squeezing me, causing a feeling of suffocation akin to that which a victim of a boa constrictor feels as the boa tightens its grip around its meal.Struggling is futile for the grip of the Snake relentlessly, mercilessly, increases until its victim can no longer breath the sustaining air of Hope.

Mistake this not for a plea for pity, for I do not deserve such magnanimous treatment. It is I who placed myself in this strait jacket.To assign blame to anyone other than myself would be a gross injustice.

To borrow a familiar political slogan, it is Time for a Change. It is time to slay the Snake that has coiled itself around my being. It is a time to do, not to say.