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color copies 10 cents each
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I'm a stick. It's difficult to imagine how it got this bad. My girl is a mover-placer with the secondary function of information kiosk and POS payment collector. I've got other friends who do other things. Most of them similar. Mover placers, information kiosks, purchase persuaders and meter scanners. But me, I'm a stick. A signpost at best. That's not even a tool. My place in society is about two steps below tool. I hold a sign up because the city won't let my employer have a permanent sign. If they would, I wouldn't even have this job; as a stick.
That's what we've become. Sticks and mover-placers, information kiosks and purchase persuaders. Mostly tools. Some of us less fortunate like me, mere objects. Easily replaced by other objects.
That's all society sees in those of us who don't have a piece of paper to prove that we've been properly programmed to perform some other task more worthy of human life. Hell, I've even got a piece of paper. But it's cheaper to keep cranking out hopeful kids and paying them a starting wage in my "field of expertise" than it is to ask me if I'd work for the same as they do. And so I'm a stick now. And not a very good stick at that. Just ask any stick. I tire, my back gets sore, I need a break now and then. Any self respecting stick would look down it's nose at me (if it had one, but what the hell does a nose have to do with being a stick? Or hands, or a brain or a heart for that matter?)
At least my friends get to wait until a machine is invented to replace them. Not me. Nope, sticks have already been invented. And that's what I am. A stick; a human stick. However did it come to this?
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