My point is: I'm hoping we can come to some sort of gentlemanly agreement. If you can manage to get me a job in which I feel a small sense of actual accomplishment and meaning, then in exchange I'll continue working until I keel over dead. Just like the good old days of 30-year life expectancies! I'm not saying I want a job in which I will be remembered forever via large statues and a rich tradition of grandiose folklore. (Please note, I'm not not saying it either. I'd keep it classy. See above.) I was just hoping to see my creative force do something other than drain down into a bottomless chasm of broken gears and human incompetence.
I know, cheeky me!
All of my adorable-ness aside for a moment, I do appreciate the job you have given me. It grants me the resources to do some of my most favorite activities, including eating, living in a house, and not-wearing tissue boxes for shoes. And did I mention eating? J/K! I know I did, I just brought it up again for humorous emphasis of how much I love to eat! Too cheeky!
Let's face it, Life – there's a lot more to you than spinning our wheels in the dark and trying to keep the tissue boxes off our feet. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. After all, you are Life. It's just hard to remember that when a good work day is one where the screams of your painfully inept coworkers finally numb your brain into a coma-like state and you stop caring about member eligibility and start caring about the vibrant cast of characters in Disney's The Wuzzles as detailed on Wikipedia. (Dear Disney: A Cactus is not a freakin' animal!)
So, in conclusion, be a mensch, Life, and take this sweet offer I'm laying down: you bring the fulfilling employment, I bring the work ethic that keeps my tired body toiling until the sweet, cold embrace of death. Otherwise I might be forced to disown you, hunker down on my couch, and start on that 'Fattest Fat Ass' dream that will land me a show on TLC.