It is drowned-on-a-Summer’s-day-scary, being an intake care coordinator, or an advertising analyst, or whatever other mouth-breathing title they can throw at you like cyanide confetti to collect a password-protected (rejected) email of a W2.
You used to be brilliant and you’re still brilliant but everything is muddled and rain-soaked like once-precious bikes rusted; you don’t even sleep when you sleep, now. Right eyelid (a butterfly’s wing) migraine.
Oh, but at least you have a job and legs and limbs and time to feed the machine a wrinkled, dry little dollar. Saved all day in exchange for a piece of plastic that’s broken before you even twist the goddamn thing open.
Call it a prize.
22luxe.com 
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