We work patiently and diligently, knowing that as soon as that final load of dishes is ran we can emerge out onto the street, breathe in air unpolluted by steam, grease, bleach, second-hand pot smoke. Then we go home and play guitars, go to bars and drink until we puke, climb on stage and sing our motherfucking hearts out. The kitchen and the dish pit are a life away. Dreams and dreams.
If They knew the thoughts running through the heads of dishwashers across America, They would have us all marched out back by the dumpster and executed.
Soak the World.