All of the hands in my pocket keep coming with the mail.
Support our cause. Help us fight this battle. Save the children. Cure our disease. Get me out of jail. Help the widows of the war.
I'm so tired. I just want to turn my back and throw them all away. My table is stacked high with mail. And who would help me when I need it? Not a single one of them. They don't even spell my name right half the time.
I'm sick of this town. I'm sick of this dead-end job. I'm sick of this house. And I'm sick of this neighborhood.
I just want to lie down and quit. But I'm not dead yet. And I'm not rich. So I have to keep on going, back to work day after day where they smile in my face and shoot me down over drinks or cigarettes while I'm not around.
Yes, Auntie Emme, THIS is bitching.
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