I Should've Been A Drug Dealer (or Pimp)

Warning: This is satire. Don't take it too seriously. Most of the characters and events come from my creative mind. That being said...

I got a new monitor, mouse, and a personal-size fan for my cubicle? Sweet! Now I can see the other 256 pixelated colors in the midst of my eye strain; I just can't get enough red, green, and black in my life. You'd think I was teaching the Diaspora, wearing a grimace and afro so large I'd have to walk sideways through doors. Nope, I'm just a database administrator who doubles as help desk support in a chemical waste company.

The 12-hour nights are really fucking with me.

If I was going to be up all night long, I should be doing some unsavory shit, like pimpin' hos or slangin' blow. Instead, I work for a tyrant who can care less about raises and promotions and more about keeping a brother down. I'm using my degree how? I have untold amounts of student loan debt to confront, and this paltry salary just won't cut it. After taxes, insurance, and 401K, I can barely afford rent. Food? What flavors of Ramen haven't I tried? My car has seven different colors, none of which are the original red. Women? Can't buy pity pussy. The drought's been so long, my fucking palms are hairier than the werewolf in the Thriller video!

My retard for a cousin keeps two pockets of cash on him for what amounts to a sixteen hour work week. He keeps new cars, the latest clothes (sonofabitch has two pairs of the latest Jordans, the Concords), women who seemingly don't mind being objectified as bitches and hos, and a big house on the hill. Let's not mention the shoe boxes of hundreds, fifties, and twenties; he could start his own bank! Me? I live in a suburban studio apartment, am called a sellout every time I come back to the neighborhood, a nerd for wanting to work in my field, and my co-workers shudder at the words "the ship" when they ask where I hail from.

I'm not done yet talking about this cousin.

Dude gets more ass than a toilet seat, and is more strapped than the NRA in the ghetto. Fuck this shit. I should've been a drug dealer or pimp. I mean, how is it I've only seen a two percent raise in eleven years due to "budget cuts?" The CEO has a new Ferrari, VPs all around purchase a minimum of two new pickups annually, and they can't carve out three percent for raises? This company nets $100M profit every year since I've been here and I can't get paid?

Who do I blame for this? My second-grade teacher, that's who. Thanks for saving me from the streets and to a life of mediocrity. My expertise in logistics and databases would shut the streets down; alas, I'm too white to sew up the block because I lack any semblance of street cred. Niggas don't believe me when I tell them I grew up in Friendship, not Shady Valley, not Hurricane Lake, not Tucker Creek, not Steeplechase, not the Meadows, not Deerfield.

I swear, I should've been a drug dealer - or pimp.

Maybe Robert Frost was onto something about taking the road less traveled, but it's left me with bruised ankles, sore feet, a dry dick, and empty pockets from trying to maintain this piece of suburban life I thought I was entitled to. The white-collar life some days makes me feel like a pilgrim in a strange land, a house of horrors, if you may.

Now, if you'd excuse me, I have a meeting with my snarky cracker-ass manager. Something about work performance, but he's always trippin' over lil' shit. If I were in the trap, you'd be reading your local paper about him and what my hos did to him.