Grizzly Weinstein (sea_gaagii) wrote,
Grizzly Weinstein

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Flexing my writing muscles (ouch -- sprain)

The factory where I work is so excessively hot; just walking to my seat is enough to drench my t-shirt in sweat. I ease myself down on the small chair, and it groans in protest of the task requested; that being, supporting my excessive bulk.

I often wonder if there should be more. No, not more of me; at 450lbs I already worry the floor of my small flat will not be able to continue supporting me. More to life; I wonder if my life should be richer than this factory work. Granted I was destined; my father worked this job in this very factory; my father's father worked this very job in the factory's old location, much further from London than the current factory. My grandfather took a horse drawn carriage to work every day. It was rumored that a team of four horses was required as he was immense. A few generations before my grandfather things were different, we hob-knobbed with the nobles. We were respected and we were admired. That is, until fucking Prime-Fucking-Minister Grey, Earl of somewhere-fucking-important, came along and ruined us with his fucking "invention".

I take of my shirt when the factory bell rings, and Ernie with his usual "top-o-the-morning" shit, brings the first of the day's tea bags to my station. To me it would seem much more productive to do more than one at a time, but the boss man insists it makes the tea uneven. "Even distribution for even flavor", what a shit; I think he drinks coffee.

I reach my right hand over and grab a large bulge of flesh on my left side. I swab the sweat from between the folds of fat with tea bags; one at a damn time. I stack the bags in the finished box for Ernie to pick up on his next round.

I don't care if it is tradition; I am not naming my kid Bergamot.

Earl Gray tea:
Ingredients: Organic black tea, essence of bergamot
Tags: writing

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