I don't know if this counts as being a bad person, but I think maybe I’ve reached some kind of breaking point. I’ve been on this factory floor since I was eighteen, which I guess makes me a "veteran" around here, even if I still have to show ID when I buy a six-pack. My hands are always stained with that industrial grease that never quite comes out from under your fingernails, and I’m just... I’m so angry. I’m angry at the machines and I’m angry at the fluorescent lights that make everyone look like they’ve been dead for three days. I think I’m mostly angry because I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m eighty.