Life at the Factory

Does this ever remind me of something.

After moving to another state, I stayed with my cousin for the first few weeks until I found a job and apartment.

At the time this area had a lot of factories so the only job I could get was a mind-numbing, spirit-crushing, brain-melting job in a factory. (She had talked me into moving there by claiming that in her area Good Jobs awaited behind every door and wall, but that's another story. )
With my sole remaining brain cell and the single spark of creativity the place had overlooked, I wrote a poem describing it. In short, I said the factory made machines all right; it made machines out of PEOPLE!

When I excitedly read it to her, she jabbed her fat and elegantly manicured finger in my face and snapped that I was "letting" that happen.

To her, every single thing was a matter of "letting." (I suppose a serial killer's victims must also be at fault for "letting" the serial killer murder them. )

Before long I realized that whenever I dared describe that waking nightmare as anything other than endlessly fascinating and thrilling, a bellylaugh every single minute, I got an earful. She claimed she had worked in a factory herself and was "never bored."

I'd say it says more about HER if she can find factory work so endlessly fascinating.