I'm rightly tired of the pain I hear and feel, boss. I'm tired of bein on the road, lonely as a robin in the rain. Not never havin no buddy to go on with or tell me where we's comin from or goin to or why. I'm tired of people bein ugly to each other. It feels like pieces of glass in my head. I'm tired of all the times I've wanted to help and couldn't. I'm tired of bein in the dark. Mostly it's the pain. There's too much. If I could end it, I would.
Fine, Newbie. Let me tell you a little story. It starts every day at five, about the time you're setting your hair for work. I am awakened by a sound. Is that a cat being gutted by a fishing knife? No. That's my son. He's hungry and he's got a load in his pants so big that I'm considering hiring a stable boy. I go ahead and dig in because I do love the lad and, gosh, you know me, I'm a giver. And I'm off to the hospital where my cup runneth over with both quality colleagues, such as yourself, and a proverbial clown car full of sick people. But my pay is about the same as guys who breaks rocks with other rocks and I only have to work 300 or 400 hours a week, so, so far, I'm a pretty happy camper. Then I head back home, where I'm greeted by the faint musk of baby vomit in a house that used to smell like, well, nothing. It used to smell like nothing at all. All I wanna do before I restart this whole glorious cycle is lay on the couch and have a beer, watch some Sports Center, and if I'm not too sweaty, stick my hand right down my pants, but apparently that's not in Jordan's definition of «pulling your weight». So, there you are, superstar. Fix that.