Please do not ask me to write some fluffy SciFi romance. Nothing will have changed by 2070. I will probably still be alive, I will probably still have this fucking job.
Remember when you hired me, based on the screenplay in my application? I worked hard on Zilly and Jack. For years, my every step was fueled by the thought of Zilly and Jack seamlessly executed on a Broadway stage. (A production, I mean, not a beheading.)
"Such wit!" you exclaimed. "Such cutting-edge quirks! We love the way Zilly listens to movie soundtracks while she studies BioChem! Dun Dun DUN!"
Oh yes. You sang me a little melody from the Spiderman II soundtrack. I took the job.
You made me write the pilot episode of "Babies Born Lactose Intolerant"! You requested that I spice up the dialogue; give the babies more "haunting" lines. Oh woe is fucking me. Can't suck on anybody's tit.
How's that for fucking haunting?
This is just to say that the next time you try to pay me in Canadian COINS, I am walking out of this office. Fuck you, Hazy-Daze Productions. Fuck you.