Thursday April 17, 2003:
I hate this job. I hate Waste Processing. I hate the tight pants and the heavy armour and the system crashes. I hate bad coffee and stale donuts and automated voices and snooty scientists.
I hate Black Mesa.
I want to see the sun again. I want to be proud of what I do. I’m going nowhere here. This is only half a life, and frankly, I’m sick of half measures.
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