soeffinhappy

I have found you can find happiness in slavery
A Journal By Sean Fogarty

I'm tired of anonymity. I'm tired of caring whether or not people know who I am. I'm tired of a lot of things but most I'm just tired. It's been a long year. I decided to start titling my journal entries and making them a little more extensive. If I can't write any more to my book, I might as well put some words here. At least it will help my grammar.
A collar is a mark. Wearing a collar marks you as a slave or a beast. Something to be led around by a chain. Something to come on command. Something to follow orders. I believe that this is the reason for the strict dress code at Citizens bank. It clearly states that you must wear collared shirts everyday. I am a slave to Citizens bank. I work like as hard as anyone while the people above me earn all the money. Everyday, I have to go out and sell innocent people checking accounts. I have to interrupt their lives to try and convince them to break whatever routine they have to open a new account with us. Sometimes I don't mind. Some people have their accounts at really bad banks and I like to give them a better deal. Most times, people have no need for the accounts that I open and only do so because I convince them of an artificial need. I'm a very good salesman. Part of my job involves going out into the aisles of the Supermarket where my bank is located and trying to get customers in the aisles to open new accounts. Whenever I do this, I have to wear a green apron. I hate that apron. I hate the way it looks, I hate the way it feels. It's a mark. A mark that says, "I'm no longer a person, I'm now a sales rep". I'm just the hand of the company coming out into the aisles to jerk people off. One time though, I worked at another branch and didn't wear the apron when I went out in the aisles. It was terrible. I felt naked. I felt as if I had no right to try to sell to people without it. Today, before going out in the aisles, I made sure to do so with the apron. Before going out, I needed to mark myself as a slave.

I was in love with a girl named Amy. She was in love with my best friend and bassist, Dave. Now I spend my nights lying awake thinking about what I've lost and they spend their nights doing everything that I once loved. I still talk to Amy. I still hang out with Amy. Amy still sometimes sleeps at my house. Why? Because I'm a slave to my emotions. I still love her. Even though I hate her more than anyone, I still love her just as much. When she is in pain I feel it. I want to do anything to make her happy. I want her. When she sleeps at my house I lay awake all night long, sometimes just staring at her. I want to hold her and hug her and kiss her. I want to feel her even breathing against my chest as she sleeps in my arms safe and content. I burn with my need for her. Dave is very possesive. If she hangs out with any guy, or if any guy hits on her, he wigs out. He never hits her or yells at her he just tries to forbid her from ever hanging out with that guy again. The only person he's comfortable with her hanging out with is me. He knows that I'm a slave. I love Amy too much to ever tempt her. To ever come onto her. To ever injure the relationship that makes her so happy. I'm her slave and I'm his slave. I do all the things for her that he can't, but I get none of the benefits that he has. Never again will I know what it feels like to know that we will be together forever, and only in me dreams can I ever feel her lips.
I want to tell people to fuck off. I want to scream and holler. I want to fight people. I want to hit every jackass who makes a smartass remark about my hair. I'll never do it. I'm a slave to who I am. I don't fight, I don't tell people to fuck off. I'm not that type of person. I avoid conflict. I just avoid people and situations I don't like. I'd love to be the kind of person who said, FUCK THE WORLD and did as he pleased. But I can't.
I'm a slave.