I'm rotting in a warehouse
Before, I was rotting in an office.
There is no joy in this job, in this system. Only the breaking of bodies and the numbing of minds. A trickle of gruel in the form of tightly calculated wages. Just enough to keep you needing. Just enough to force your labor.
They say it's necessary. That they, too, were once penniless.
They have lake houses where they winter and mountain cabins where they summer. They have boats and jet skis and five cars they don't drive.
They set the wages. They could set them higher. They don't.
They tell you this is necessary.
And so I rot in a warehouse. The heat is starting to creep in. There is no climate control.
My twice surgically repaired knee pops, creaks, and aches more now. My long-bad back tenses and cramps. I've started drinking again at the end of the day. Partially to stop the pains. Partially to feel anything but the numb.
I'm in my 30s. Not old. Not spry. Aging more every day.
And I'm rotting in a warehouse.