I fucking hate it, telephone ringing. Fuck you telephone, fuck whoever is on the other line, fuck you all. Hi my name is Emily and I’m a telemarketer from hell. I work in hell, I live in hell, I call from hell, my number pops up on your cell as ‘demonic minion of Satan calling from sector 4, the brimstone pit’. And when you get a call from me you will fucking hate it. I know you will because that’s why I’m calling you, to make you hate your life, to cause you anguish and trouble sleeping. If I’m good at my job you will kill yourself before the week is out. If I’m having a shit week, you might just end up hurting yourself. If I’m having an on week, you will go on a mass killing spree and then kill yourself. The more damage I do, the more points I earn, and the more points means the sooner I can get out of this shit hole. I hate the phone, I hate making the calls, that’s why they put me here, extreme psychological torment via phone calls. Each time I have to pick up the receiver to dial out, because there are no headsets in hell, and all the phones have long twisted, snaking cords, full of knots and that tangled in everything. The pitch shrieks at me making my ears bleed, they’re always crusted over with brownish dried gunk from the constant calling. I have to call, if I ever want to get out of here I have to smile and dial my ass off and see how many souls I can drag down here for the master to snack on.