I’m a hard-core child-baby doll so stand way clear unless you want to join me in my search for no career. I’m drunk on orange soda I’m wired on Lucky Charms, I’m sucking IV Nutrasweet through a hole in my arm. I am non-committal, drifting’s a full-time job, and I’d be a big bank robber if I could part-time rob. I do nothing, nothing but pretend that quasi-fascination is a means to a world without end.
Grains of coffee fleck my shirt like amphetamine dandruff. The wash would get them out if I ever washed this stuff. It’s not my shirt anyway, you can check the inner wrap. My name tag isn’t in there, it belongs to some guy named Gap. And they can make me wear it, and they can make me sell goods, but we both know that there’s no way that they can make me smell good.
So you’re tired of me? Well, then, fire me. You must be dumber than I am, you’re the sucker that hired me.