Post by Downfall on Feb 9, 2021 22:33:02 GMT -5
Do you ever have a dream where you're pushing a boulder up a hill?
The heaviest stone weight, being pushed up against slick, mossy, muddy embankment. You slip; you dig your feet in and push with all of your might to gain purchase. Inch by inch by fucking centimeter if need be. This Sisyphean effort only compounded by the realization - in the dream - that it doesn't matter. The hill is fighting you. And it's not because the hill is malicious, and it's not because it's specially made to punish you - the hill just... is. And you know, if you give up even a little, you'll fall, but even when your foot slips, the boulder skids on moss; somehow, you lose a bit of purchase, you've already slid farther down.
That's the only way I can attribute my frustration.
I've given my strongest effort time and again, and just when it seems like I'm gaining some respect for how hard I've worked to get where I am - the hill fights back. Puts a rock in the path, makes the incline just a little too slick. I win a triple threat match against two main event talents, and nobody can take that away from me - then the very next week I'm forced to team (At rAnDoM!!) with someone I had wanted three fucking times now to put in my rear-view, giving my opponents an infinite ammo code. I'm recruited into a stable, and it goes well for precisely one week where we murdered a man on live TV and threw him into a river - then after that they have never appeared once at my side and I'm left to my own devices. And then, we come to my opponent this week.
Darren Marsh, who if we're to believe it's even plausible, is splitting his duties from being the racist, BLM-hating chief of police for Las Vegas - who's also decided, training be damned, I know how to swing a billy club and insult people's intelligence, that makes me a prime candidate to be a wrestling antagonist.
That in itself is an insult to anyone who's even remotely been through remedial training, let alone someone who's worked for twenty years to carve out a successful career.
I don't want management to think there's any sour grapes at all, cuz being open about my frustrations in the past's left me with the tag of being hard to work with, but I can't look at Darren Marsh as anything but a fucking joke.
This man's wasting ninety seconds of precious air-time per Clash with a badly scribed Parler rant, who'd never had a match before Revolution; who called for an open challenge and was destroyed by returning John Black with one flying clothesline.
So now, if this fat slob suddenly manages to learn a series of wrestling moves and gives me a tougher fight than thirty seconds, then I'VE lost credibility. See what I mean? No-win prospect.
I'd wanna say that, of all people, you should be able to commiserate with me, Darren. You must know the toil of a thankless job with no winner. You sit your corpulent ass behind a desk, you shuffle paperwork around and balance budgets. You've removed yourself so far from any actual policework or feeling of kinship with your district that you don't have the slightest insight about what's happening in the lives of the residents of your streets; no empathy with the plight of the poverty-stricken, destitute or vagrants. You've removed yourself so far from them, and you simp so hard for the First Estate corporate bigwigs that fund your cities and clothe your officers, that you don't even see those people in your district as people. You aren't there to serve them, you're there to protect property. To enforce status-quo.
The kinda life you live, it's a wonder you can even go to bed at night without sucking on your service revolver.
An act, I'd argue, you should still look into at some point, you mind-numbingly banal bureacrat.
In my younger days I'd be so full of fire to flay your pig ass. Fucking fascists, 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes', all of that. But I currently, can't summon that level of fire against you, because in so many ways, you are just a symptom of a disease.
A societal disease, yes. A moral lapse, since you corruptly abuse your "power" to make people miserable and for that, you absolutely do deserve a broken jaw, certainly.
Once I leave you twitching in a mass of your own waste and soiled pants and move on, another notch on this belt, will it matter? Or will you pick yourself back up, go right back to your mediocre feud with JB nobody cares about? And I? Is this my reward, when I've pushed as hard as I can against the stone all the way up the hill only to lose purchase? I know it sounds defeatist, and probably some Carter Shaw is going to read into this and say "he's wHiNiNg, LOSS BREED, HURR HURR" but... some days that's what it be. Some days the hill gets its win. Some days the hill just doesn't give a fuck how hard you push.
But the thing... I've been reminded of, that I'm trying to keep in mind, even as I'm forced to go through the motions of rolling over such a lardy speed-bump as you, is that some weeks, the pushing is all that matters.
I won't let this be for nothing, Darren. You can go climb your god-damn baton.
I won't let you, or Kemp, or ANY-fucking-one take down what I've made. And I have made something here.
I started by describing a dream so I'll end with one:
I'm dreaming of standing at the top of the hill, arms raised in triumph, while you, Darren, and everyone else at the bottom, are crushed under the avalanche of stones you were too weak to push.
The end.
The heaviest stone weight, being pushed up against slick, mossy, muddy embankment. You slip; you dig your feet in and push with all of your might to gain purchase. Inch by inch by fucking centimeter if need be. This Sisyphean effort only compounded by the realization - in the dream - that it doesn't matter. The hill is fighting you. And it's not because the hill is malicious, and it's not because it's specially made to punish you - the hill just... is. And you know, if you give up even a little, you'll fall, but even when your foot slips, the boulder skids on moss; somehow, you lose a bit of purchase, you've already slid farther down.
That's the only way I can attribute my frustration.
I've given my strongest effort time and again, and just when it seems like I'm gaining some respect for how hard I've worked to get where I am - the hill fights back. Puts a rock in the path, makes the incline just a little too slick. I win a triple threat match against two main event talents, and nobody can take that away from me - then the very next week I'm forced to team (At rAnDoM!!) with someone I had wanted three fucking times now to put in my rear-view, giving my opponents an infinite ammo code. I'm recruited into a stable, and it goes well for precisely one week where we murdered a man on live TV and threw him into a river - then after that they have never appeared once at my side and I'm left to my own devices. And then, we come to my opponent this week.
Darren Marsh, who if we're to believe it's even plausible, is splitting his duties from being the racist, BLM-hating chief of police for Las Vegas - who's also decided, training be damned, I know how to swing a billy club and insult people's intelligence, that makes me a prime candidate to be a wrestling antagonist.
That in itself is an insult to anyone who's even remotely been through remedial training, let alone someone who's worked for twenty years to carve out a successful career.
I don't want management to think there's any sour grapes at all, cuz being open about my frustrations in the past's left me with the tag of being hard to work with, but I can't look at Darren Marsh as anything but a fucking joke.
This man's wasting ninety seconds of precious air-time per Clash with a badly scribed Parler rant, who'd never had a match before Revolution; who called for an open challenge and was destroyed by returning John Black with one flying clothesline.
So now, if this fat slob suddenly manages to learn a series of wrestling moves and gives me a tougher fight than thirty seconds, then I'VE lost credibility. See what I mean? No-win prospect.
I'd wanna say that, of all people, you should be able to commiserate with me, Darren. You must know the toil of a thankless job with no winner. You sit your corpulent ass behind a desk, you shuffle paperwork around and balance budgets. You've removed yourself so far from any actual policework or feeling of kinship with your district that you don't have the slightest insight about what's happening in the lives of the residents of your streets; no empathy with the plight of the poverty-stricken, destitute or vagrants. You've removed yourself so far from them, and you simp so hard for the First Estate corporate bigwigs that fund your cities and clothe your officers, that you don't even see those people in your district as people. You aren't there to serve them, you're there to protect property. To enforce status-quo.
The kinda life you live, it's a wonder you can even go to bed at night without sucking on your service revolver.
An act, I'd argue, you should still look into at some point, you mind-numbingly banal bureacrat.
In my younger days I'd be so full of fire to flay your pig ass. Fucking fascists, 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes', all of that. But I currently, can't summon that level of fire against you, because in so many ways, you are just a symptom of a disease.
A societal disease, yes. A moral lapse, since you corruptly abuse your "power" to make people miserable and for that, you absolutely do deserve a broken jaw, certainly.
Once I leave you twitching in a mass of your own waste and soiled pants and move on, another notch on this belt, will it matter? Or will you pick yourself back up, go right back to your mediocre feud with JB nobody cares about? And I? Is this my reward, when I've pushed as hard as I can against the stone all the way up the hill only to lose purchase? I know it sounds defeatist, and probably some Carter Shaw is going to read into this and say "he's wHiNiNg, LOSS BREED, HURR HURR" but... some days that's what it be. Some days the hill gets its win. Some days the hill just doesn't give a fuck how hard you push.
But the thing... I've been reminded of, that I'm trying to keep in mind, even as I'm forced to go through the motions of rolling over such a lardy speed-bump as you, is that some weeks, the pushing is all that matters.
I won't let this be for nothing, Darren. You can go climb your god-damn baton.
I won't let you, or Kemp, or ANY-fucking-one take down what I've made. And I have made something here.
I started by describing a dream so I'll end with one:
I'm dreaming of standing at the top of the hill, arms raised in triumph, while you, Darren, and everyone else at the bottom, are crushed under the avalanche of stones you were too weak to push.
The end.