What If the Bastards All Perish and I'm Not Ready?

The two major themes of this page so far (hating my job and hating myself) are ringing clear right now; my job has become doing nothing with people I never see, and I'm increasingly unable to talk to anyone in a way that feels satisfactory. It's 9:20PM, the sky's Indigo, and the moon is full and bright. I have more money in my bank account than I think I've ever had, and absolutely no idea what to do with it, other than I guess quit.

Sound: Like shit  
Look: Like shit  
Smell: A bit sweaty. I don't really have any shorts in my dresser, and it's very hot and humid. A vein in my left armpit won't stop pulsating, and I think it might be indicative of some kind of circulatory issue.

When, o when will these motherfuckers just fire me?