Boring-ass corporate life, 9-to-5 workaholic wannabes who stay at the office till 9 p.m. , wishing my future wife would be a stay-at-home mum who takes care of kids I’d barely interact with type-of-shit.

Faces barely show emotions, unwilling to grant a soft smile. Trying to suppress that naiveness, those childish rosy cheeks, the way their mum made them.

How dare you show some empathy? Maybe less saggy and more tyrannical would be perfect, even slightly angrier. They would eventually spit on you and call you a greedy bastard. Masters who treat you like a slave. You get scared by their auto-attributed power and the uniform that makes them look like characters from 1984 or some other kind of scary dystopian fiction. Would I ever be like that? And then, the imminent revelation: chains, latex, chokers, ball gags, whips.

These guys are ready to wave their arses and beg their bosses to subjugate them. Dirty, dirty collars. White gone smeared, smudged, splotched. Who prevails, who’s subjugated, enslaved?