Never Everlasting Anything
So I told her basically I'm a pie and there are two more fingers in me today than there were last week. Which obviously was already a few. Not even counting my own. So I'm not really going to have the time to… and my filling is delicious, but why doesn't one of us just get a fork? So it's a pre-employment questionnaire thing they sent to check I'm not diseased, or that whatever diseases I do have are not unfavourable, economically. Well for example like wanting to devote the majority of your waking seconds to doing the thing in the first place, I'd say. But she… yeah condition, alright substitute condition for disease and then tell me I'm wrong. Elaborately-packaged records and holidays in historically significant postcodes, mainly. And she'll just want to appreciate landscapes all week like she's the Ordnance fucking Survey. Well at the end there's a space for previous convictions, confessions and dubious misc, and I wanted to tell them about my butchering the dreams of other people, frying them up in tears and spice and serving them on beds of hope gone cold, which, y'know, I'm still fairly sorry about, but I just can't seem to stop doing it. Like I don't even enjoy it anymore, but I can't stop doing it, and they should probably know that about me, even though it's a night-time thing and won't affect my work, at all. But she said it'd abominably decrease my chances of success, and therefore of terrific holidays and elaborately-packaged records, and then I supposed that this kind of damage-limiting dishonesty is probably why we're still together. So I left it blank.