Just now, Kali$ha informed me that our shipment of artisanal goat cheese was delayed because the truck driver got a "flat tire" somewhere in the Cascades.

A likely story.

She then began her hourly, ADA-mandated restroom break, leaving me to pacify a man who was screaming about the price of kombucha.

This is my so-called "life."

And then, a summons appears on the $hitbort.

Not an invitation, not a properly formatted calendar request, but a crude, digital grunt from the wilderness. From him.

Mainlining wants me at "The Cabin™."

I picture it now: dirt, pine-scented despair, and a distinct lack of acceptable thread count on the linens.

Will there be a proper espresso machine?

Or am I expected to drink boiled creek water from a tin cup like some kind of... pioneer? The sheer lack of amenities is terrifying.

The main attraction, I'm told, is "Boom."

Captive in The Well™.

Being "recalibrated" with a diet of cold Tilapia™.

It's not the cruelty that offends me; Boom has always been a liability, a walking catastrophe of poor choices. It is the sheer lack of style.

If one must hold a rival in a subterranean prison, is a single piece of bottom-feeder fish really the most imaginative one can be?

It's so... pedestrian. So utterly TTT.

And yet...

To escape the endless, oppressive dampness of this shit-pile of a ciTTTy? T

To trade the vacant, bovine stares of the $afeway proles for the focused, chilling gaze of a man who truly acts. A man who, for all his rustic faults, has a vision.

Does one abandon a hell of tedious incompetence for a hell of premeditated squalor?

How Dare he make me Choose.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5746944&forum_id=2Reputation#49077864)