The despair of being picked last.

How can one find joy beneath the sorrow and affliction of this unmerciful world. A world blighted by the uncaring indifferent, who so shallowly bare their arms up against the poor in spirit and triumphantly exclaim their dominance both in high praise of their conquests and by their base instinctive pageantry. I, nothing more than the dog's hind in matter and thought, looked upon as lacking for being a bit peculiar and not conditioning myself to walk like all the rest, am imprisoned like a villianous rogue and an ignominious rascal, and why, for what purpose, of proving that one must prostrate oneself, and not before God but man, in order to become reckonized as a son or daughter of the earth. If one is to get ahead in this world, one must lie and steal, claim what is not rightfully theirs. You must look the man straight in the eyes and speak against your divine self. You must blaspheme against your own precious nature. You must sit up straight, not fiddle with your hands, make eye connect, embellish them with fanciful pleasantries and tell them what they long to hear, what their invaluable statistics and lengthly research has proven to them, that a person worth can be measured by how low they're willing to bow before the masters of anthropocentrism. But if you haven't become inundated with the rules and restriction of polite society at an early age, there are sites that explain the rules of the game so you can study up prior to being interrogated. And the sites forewarn one about the kinds of questions that one will face, such things as, "Tell me about a time in your life that you were affected by strife and how you overcame it." or, "What is it you like about our company and why do you think you'd be a good fit here?" And they drill you with these questions even though you have applied for the most menial of labors, like washing toilets, or doing dishes, and they think working in such drudgery for a measly wage has always been your passion or something, like when you were a bright eyed child you dreamed of yourself become the lowly grunt of America's workforce. You must smile and tell witty tails about yourself, prove to them your aptitude to understand all the insignificant nuances of their appointed trade, if you can even call it that, for most of these jobs could be performed by a trained monkey, but you can't tell them that because of how proud they've become at excelling at such a rudimentary endeavor. And most importantly, you must show them you have what it takes to help them extend their bottom line and make their business more profitable, because in America the only thing that matters is money. So you go in there smiling, bent on displaying your natural abilities, looking dapper and impressing, but in truth, it's all just a charade, a falsity, a front, a guise. You camouflage yourself, putting on this caring and attentive facade, masqueraded as a puppet, a marionette, and after the interview, when all is said and done, you can't help feeling manipulated and molested, and your left with the aches and pains from their hand being shoved so far up your ass. Well fuck them, and fuck you who believe in such a travesty, weak imitations and mindless clones. My fury will burn your eyelids and sear your innards. I will blast off your plastic barbie doll husk with the red hot fire of perdition allowing only the empty shell of your depleted heart to be witnessed, and the saints and angels will laugh at your hollow conceit. The whisps of your soul will be blown apart by the gentlest breeze, and it will cast forth your matter like the pollen of a whithered tree. For I am the meek, so I shall inherit this earth, but sadly, not until you have cravenly destroyed it, leaving only the charred remains of its former self. But I will compassionately and tenderly console it, like a caring mother, nuturing it back to beauty, relishing in its small advances and toiling its sweet soil. I know your game and I refuse to play it, and if that means I will starve, well then so be it, but know this, when you're laying on your death bed and the Lord asks your name, my name will pop up, and you will remember my ominious tidings. Then you will squirm, like the worm that you are, and that you have always been, feeding upon the feces of the earth, and maggots will invest your corpse.