So some dork asks me for a "designer" job...

It's a particularly... peculiar occurrence, let's say, strictly because of where I'm from : a place & time beyond the rainbow that you can't begin to imagine (and for which reason you're very much beginning to live).

Back among 1980s socialist (ahem, I'm sorry, "popular-democratic") narratives, back in those enchanted times & places where a dozen teenaged girlies hung themselves each yearⁱ because they only made 80-something percent instead of the ninety-something percent that'd have allowed them to become teachers (as opposed to factory workers) on the omnixam, thus greatly disappointing their families (as represented by the father and his ilk, not the mother and her kind) the sorting through the she-herd for marital purposes was simple enough : upper class people got a French-speaking girlie ; the middle-class and other upstarts of dubious quality still accepted on public occasions but rather towards the back of the room got themselves an English-speaking second best. The former came from the titcan called Liceul Mihai Eminescu ; the latter from the less great but maybe nicer tits (certainly bigger) titcan called "Liceul Gheorghe Sincai".

That's as far as the differences wentⁱⁱ : the showing off of the bitch/bride to be (dressed, don't mind me) to uncles &cetera extended family. If she was French-able she earned you bonus points, and otherwise... well, English'll be good enough, it's "of future" and whateverⁱⁱⁱ. No brownie points though. Not like it made any difference beyond that, they were both gonna be teachers, preggers and subsistence cooks^iv anyhow -- and that's the end of that story.

Then the 90s rolled around, and some things happened. For one thing, decent, respectable boys listened to Heavy Metal (Iron Maiden especially and very dominantly)^v. Contrariwise not to mention opposite of this correct, righteous, just and appropriate preference -- which, at the time (as well as in the confused mind of teenagers generally) passed for identity -- some utterly fallen, decayed (and probably homalai, too!) scum listened to -- horrible dictu!! -- Depeche Mode. They weren't people, that's for damn sure ; and their cosmos-destructuring crime -- for it was a crime, make no mistake about it -- to be punished on the spot, with a hardcore beatdown, including stomping. I've never beaten in my whole life as a career criminal as many people for anything else as I stomped the living daylights out of those depesari reprehensible fucks back in the 90s.^vi (Amusingly enough, my elder slavegirl's a lifetime fan, and although I beat her ass down regularily... it's never for that.^vii)

For another thing, new career paths opened up for boys, besides mastering that math and therefore becoming engineers. They could just as well (and alternatively) not master anything, and be... designers. Since you've not seen the beatdowns you can't imagine the contempt in which those idiots were held, that had become "designers" because they couldn't figure out math. It was like going to school to become a faggot (which you probably imagine "is ok" and "socially acceptable" and "a matter of personal choice" whatever identity politics vomit, but permit me to laugh^viii), I mean... I'm positive any kid worth his salt'd have much rather Tom Sawyer-drowned than cocking it all up that badly.

The irony of it all is that upon 30 years' history accumulating into experience, it actually turns out that... they were right, too. It was a categorical, crucial mistake, "becoming a designer". It never panned out for the becomers, anyways. It'd have been better to drown, Tom Sawyer-drown or otherwise. It was actually wrong, morally wrong, to like Depeche Mode as a kid. It may very well be aesthetically right, I agree, as a grown man I even have it in my grown man car the bitches drive for me. It's harmless to me now, just like the old folk said. But morals ain't got nothing to do with aesthetics. Ethically, it was a choice worse than suicide.

What to do for the walking dead ? Nothing, of course. With, yes, but for... how ?

1. Out of maybe a hundred thousand or so total population, meaning post-Bacalaureat suicide was the principal cause of death for females age 18. Not that anyone reported it as such, because nobody gave a shit, because honestly that's what they were supposed to do. Helps keep the rest in line. They'd call it "a personal tragedy", and mean by that "exactly how it's supposed to go". [↩]
2. That's exactly how it went, what. Who disagrees wasn't the fuck there. [↩]
3. If you recognize this spoken part carries a woman's wilting lilting soprano voicing indication, who knows. Maybe you were there. [↩]
4. I'll just say "N-ai pe cineva..." and leave it at that. You find Tomita on your own. [↩]
5. In continuation of pre-90s fashions. [↩]
6. Nor do I have any shot in hell of ever catching up. For one thing I'm way the fuck too lazy, and for the other I've gone from "almost slapping" to throwing cashews over a decade, I mean gimme a break. 19 yo me is quite unimpressed with all the fatty decay. [↩]
7. It's never for anything really, at least not usually.

   Take for instance the most recent beatdown, which occured last night. I invited the bitches to my bed to cuddle, which took a rapid turn because they started kissing and blocking my view of (b) "what the fuck is that" (h) "another one of those celentano teenagers rock things" (m) "yeah dude, this guy... he owned Italian box office for twenty years, making the cheapest shit ever. I don't think he ever spent a hundred grand on a film, just basically put out a podcast and the suckers ate it up."

   Next thing I know, I was tying the unicorn's feet to the solid metal railings of the bed and inviting Hannah to beat her up, then someone was licking my balls while I was ploughing into an unexpecting cunt (it's great by the way, try it sometimes, unprepared sex like them real Africans do it) that got flood-slick in three strokes while beating the shit out of some thighs or butts or what was it... o wait actually before that she was spreading her legs sitting so I could get her where it really hurts, you know, them inner thighs on a grown woman while I was nominally beating the tied down bimbo... basically she was tempting my stick away by putting her cunt on display you could say.

   Anyways, I don't remember it all, but to make an unremembered story short they're all leopard-printed this fine morning (those that are, unlike me, up) and I can't say they've done something to deserve it.

   Other than being somethings that deserve it, that is. [↩]

8. And while we're laughing : noticed the disclaimer ?

   How faggoty are those "United Nations" jokers anyways ?! It's almost like they're DM fans, what the fuck "we publish it but we didn't publish it if you come asking with a jackboot ready" sorta bs is that! [↩]