3/4 Through a 32-hour Shift

Sometimes when I think about it, working in cosy cafes is a strange profession for me to pursue. For example, a lot of the people whom I meet at work like things like sweets, and boardgames. I find both sweets, and games,  disgusting - but it is polite and professional, and socially constructive, to enable others to enjoy these things. So I tolerate these things,  perhaps in the way that a racist tolerates his co-workers of colours, or in the way that a religious person accepts the murderers and molestors that she may meet at the bus stop. I make efforts to emphathise, in the way that we should all try to understand the minds of criminals,  and to share in the suffering of the deranged for the sake of community. Apart from various interactions such as these, I remain a relatively simple fellow. I like to study science, some arts, and a little poetry. I do math, work out, and fuck bitches, when there are women who can tolerate my personality; and when there are no bitches, I am a lonely man;  (and I say that in the colloquial sense, in as much as either partner in an intimate relationship is a biatch to every other). Life is strange indeed. Here we are, on that little rock,  around that little star. Conscious of what is given to our senses. Ignorant of everything without. What to do. Have some coffee. Carry on. Maybe a little more sleep,  eventually.

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