Friday Fictioneers #44: parked.

parked

You have no life, you sold it to somebody richer than you in exchange for the crumbs from their table. You’re chronically exhausted, you’re dead inside, all  because you believed them when they said that this was the path to dignity, the only way. They promised you the earth as they yanked the rug from under your feet, quietly laughing. At least you get to look down on people who don’t work, thinking you’re better than them, that your slavery is more moral than their freedom. Grow up. Get over yourself. Your deranged envy is more obvious than you think.