Censorship: How I Became A Street-Whore

Today, I had a meeting with a certain school administrator to talk about my stupid, fake role as Assembly Coordinator. I was told that I’m “super funny,” but  also no longer allowed to be “super funny” when it goes against the interests of the school (for example, when I poked at the validity of the AI “professionals” after their enlightening Q&A at ASM). Basically, now I have to pretend to enjoy every presenter who sucks, and I can’t legally think in colors other than purple.  I’m a party favor they hand out at work. I’m corporate-sanctioned fun. I’m a whore.

 If I had known a year ago that my job would be to turn on the sparkle cannons after Ms. Ciccareli gives me not one but two EXPLICIT thumbs up, and Caswell grabs me by the ass to whisper “Give em hell, kiddo,” I probably would have tossed my speech and stayed home. That’s why they wait until October to say “Surprise, you're my little bitch-boy.”

I’m devoid of self authorship, as debate would say Kierkegaard would say. They want me braindead and pliant.

I’m definitely overreacting, but censorship is my pet-peeve.