In the working realm (a false alternate reality that we have allowed to take over the primary one), there is no more ironic truth than wanting nothing more than to bite with endless gusto the hand that feeds you. And it’s not just because the hand in question is a wrinkly, veiny one that belongs to an old white man who just won’t die because the old guard is hellbent on sustaining the patriarchy. It’s also because no relationship can be pure when it is contingent upon a financial exchange.
Sure, you can feign your pleasantries (even to the point of allowing your phony grin to start leaking blood), but beneath it all is the insatiable desire to bare your teeth in a different way, to draw blood with the latent vampire fangs waiting to come out and free you from your oppressor by wounding him (and well, maybe more). He who thinks he can control you just because you’re performing a service you never ordinarily would if your life wasn’t contingent upon a lust for material. Because you know you could take the feral dog route if you really wanted to: run out into the woods and live by nature alone, where all the essentials–food and shelter–are already built in. And when that day comes, maybe you finally will bite that condescending hand on your out.