Internships are voluntary slavery. Consignment to wageless abuse, empty promises, false flattery, and abject favoritism, they're daycare labor camps for masters in training. But I'm thirty. All the growing up I have left to do is between my legs. This is not the sort of whoring I signed up for.
The perfect intern is soulless, willing to give himself to anyone for anything. By no means an apprentice, they're happy answering phones, making coffee, or doing everyone else's work if it means some day they might get paid. They're naive enough to believe their opinions matter, so much they give them away for free. They do what they're told. They follow orders. They piss away their gifts to people who bottle them up and sell them to a country too drunk to notice they've had too much. They're happy driving from the backseat, while their master fucks the horse drawing the carriage.
That's the trouble. Interns are the future. It's why we work for free. We're the problem that can no longer be denied. So count your blessings. Count the sips of spitless coffee we cream for you, because one day we're gonna brew it with bleach, and clean this country from the inside out.
I don't mean to be spiteful, ranting like some old man who thinks what he says means anything, but goddammit I am. No matter what age, we deserve to get paid for the lives we're forced to waste. Sure, we gotta "pay our dues," but we also have to pay our bills, and try to have a little time and peace of mind left to love what scraps of life are left after the master's done feasting. So masters everywhere, watch the trough your snout's in, and remember: When the fire starts, we're all gonna watch you burn.
The perfect intern is soulless, willing to give himself to anyone for anything. By no means an apprentice, they're happy answering phones, making coffee, or doing everyone else's work if it means some day they might get paid. They're naive enough to believe their opinions matter, so much they give them away for free. They do what they're told. They follow orders. They piss away their gifts to people who bottle them up and sell them to a country too drunk to notice they've had too much. They're happy driving from the backseat, while their master fucks the horse drawing the carriage.
That's the trouble. Interns are the future. It's why we work for free. We're the problem that can no longer be denied. So count your blessings. Count the sips of spitless coffee we cream for you, because one day we're gonna brew it with bleach, and clean this country from the inside out.
I don't mean to be spiteful, ranting like some old man who thinks what he says means anything, but goddammit I am. No matter what age, we deserve to get paid for the lives we're forced to waste. Sure, we gotta "pay our dues," but we also have to pay our bills, and try to have a little time and peace of mind left to love what scraps of life are left after the master's done feasting. So masters everywhere, watch the trough your snout's in, and remember: When the fire starts, we're all gonna watch you burn.
