||[Nov. 3rd, 2009|09:29 pm]
Pull up your lip corners, left to right, right to left, and back again.
Make damned sure it's symmetrical, like someone drew a graph on your face, with a compass.
And as long as they're watching, keep smiling.
They say that at work, all you have to do is give them what they want, and they'll be happy. When they're happy, there's no flaring tempers, no poisonous threats, no furious glaring, everyone's happy. Happiness makes the world go round.
As long as they're looking, keep smiling.
They say we probably won't be going home this weekend. Or the next. They say it's not so bad, because it used to be much worse, and we'll be getting Wednesday off as a break anyway. They say we're already getting more than we deserve.
They is the new God. The inter-galactic religion of the 21st Century. The Church of They. The They Prayers. Haven't you heard?
Tyler says we're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. I used to violently disagree. I'm smarter now. Spend enough time working for them, and you see it all for yourself. A glorious mega-assembly founded strictly on the archetypes of everything good. Spend enough time working for them, and the smoke grenade of ideals clears before you. The golden carapace peels away to reveal nothing. Nothing of the good that they generously boast of, nothing of the slogans they proudly trumpet.
As long as they're forking out for a bed that let's you sleep in relative comfort and three meals a day, keep smiling.
But there is hope yet. Look at Winston. He's joined the many lucky few who've moved on out of here. If there is hope, said Winston, it lies in the proles. Never really got that, and we're still trying to, but what you don't understand, you can make mean anything. That, that right there, was Chuck.
What they're doing to you here is, they train you to defend the greater good, they prepare you for the worst, they free your inner patriot. What actually happens is mental torture. My brain is so fried from non-usage that it's bio-degrading, cell after cell after cell. I no longer think as well as I used to. I can't say what I actually mean. My mouth is faster than my mind. My head is one big bowl of word salad.
But all you have to do is keep at it. Slowly but surely, there's a point along the way where the winding road stops winding, where the little gate that's always been in the distance will appear before you, just four, five steps away. Then you'll escape, like the others, and you'll run like the devil is on your back, not stopping until you can't see this place when you turn around.
As long as they're paying you, keep smiling.
As long as they're keeping tab on you, keep that big fat plastic expression plastered all over your unbitter face, and show them that there's nothing to be unhappy about.