Loves to Whip.

When someone wrote "Loves to Bitch" on a heart at my factory job, I knew it was time to leave. Now unemployed except for a few freelance gigs here and there, I am the poorest I have ever been in my life. I have never felt as happy as I am and as criminally depressed as I am now. Life is like that, I guess.

My apartment is my prison, my home and my escape. I paint, I draw, I write. I sit in front of the computer too long and now maybe I'm starting this column/blog to let other people know how I feel. Also I'd love to hear how other people feel about life in general and their jobs.

I'm disturbed by the firing of employees who were smoking on their own time. I'm proud of the ones that refused to be tested. I'm scared that privacy is a concept that no longer exists. A thousand years before computers you could just pick up, leave town and become someone else. Now there is no escape from who you are and where you've been. God help us sinners 'coz everyone knows our sins.

How did we let our employers go as far as they're going? When did we all sit down and give up our rights? When did we say, "I'm okay with everyone knowing everything about me, even my kinkier thoughts." I don't remember saying it. I don't want anyone knowing how much liquor I drink or whether or not I smoke. I want to order lingerie off the internet in anonimity and whips and chains... maybe cellulite cream for my ass... What I don't want is to be hit the next day with offers for vibrators and diets. It's a little more than annoying and almost certainly embarrassing.

And then I go to work on Monday and there's a heart at work saying, "Loves to Whip."

Good thing I'm still unemployed.

Oh and if my future employer wants to know whether or not I smoke, I'll firmly tell her, 'That has no bearing on my work performance.' and nothing more.