Monday April 14, 2003:
Well, I can officially confirm that Waste Processing sucks. I’ve only been here a few days, but it feels like decades. It’s so monotonous, and the smell makes me nauseous. It’s so strong I can’t even eat lunch without gagging.
The one positive is that I get to see more of Chico, but even the novelty of that has worn off. He keeps telling me long stories about life at Aperture, about how the boss was working on a magic gun and explosive lemons and whatnot. To be fair, I can see how this job has driven him ga-ga. In a few weeks I’ll probably be spouting off the same nonsense.
My job is keep an eye on the trash compactor; a big hydraulic press where these two steel walls pulverise anything trapped between them. I don’t wanna to know what would happen if a person ended up stuck down there.
From nine till five I clock in and crush stuff, grinding the trash into pulp and powder. It’s so dull, and I feel exhausted at the end of every shift. I’m too tired to go shooting, or exercise with Freeman, and when I see Lauren I’m so cranky I just grumble. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
In fact, about the only social contact I have these days is with Chumtoad. I’ve started bringing the little guy to my shifts with me, and he usually plays in the garbage. Nobody here pays any attention to a purple salamander rooting around in the litter: that’s how soul-destroying this job is.