Look,

I know I’m not that deep, but sometimes I get to thinking about my life and the universe, and start questioning my place in it. What am I doing, and why am I doing it? Is the payoff worth the effort? Will I ever have a solid career? What will be my next great idea, my Holy Maury Mother Of God? I work really hard, sometimes to the point of running myself ragged. Like, right now I’m laying in bed, finally resting after working four and a half back-to-back shifts in a row on some get home at 2:20 am, and get back at it by 9:30, standing all day steez. It’s far from easy. I’m aching like an old man in a Bengay commercial. I need a backiotomy and I’ve got a throbbing pain in my big toe that feels like childbirth. So in pursuit of a known antidote for this dose of reality, I hit the computer and started looking for the ultimate massager. A lean mean miraculous machine, if you will. But instead I found this:

A Caucasian baby, hood named Enzyme. Trapped within a borealis force field. Inside a gilded frame. Working harder than me. For her entire lifetime.

No more complaints.

Fading in,
Susan Z. Anthony