“So, what are you working on?”

“I’m writing card bits for a company.”

That’s exactly what I said. By his reaction you’d think I’d said,

“I’m wiring cats nuts to a car battery.”

I listen to him, for a moment, before it was my turn.

“So, I’m selling out my ‘art’, as you so ardently put it. Listen to me you hipster douche, I’m working at a job I like. Unlike you who works a job they continually bitch about being so beneath them while talking about all the creative ideas they have yet no one’s seen a turds weight of one. Well, unless you count your snarky little secret blog you have where you do nothing but slag the people you work with yet they’re the only people who’ll hang out with you. I wonder what that says about you? Listen to me you posing little twat, it takes very little to state that you’re fucking brilliant, but it takes a barrel full of wit to be able to write a birthday card that makes a depressed fifty year old laugh. So leave now before I open your skull and continue pissing on your brain.”

I think I’ve had too much coffee this morning.

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