June 5th 1975

I hate my job. I think I’m going to quit.

I mean sure, it pays well, and there’s never a dull day, but lately, just… Jesus Christ.

It isn’t the violence, that doesn’t bother me, part of the job description, but the shit I have to put up with is getting out of hand. Have you ever had to scrub brains out of a car interior? No, of course you haven’t, because you don’t work for Marsellus Wallace.

And if the brains weren’t bad enough, then I had to go deal with Ms. Wallace. She totally has the hots for me, and I’m just sitting there trying to stomach the fact I just paid five whole dollars for a shake without a single drop of alcohol, and she’s all “Hey, let’s go win the dance contest!” The dancing was nice. But that’s the problem. I’m trying not to get killed here. And then what’s she do? Oh I don’t know, overdoses and goes all cardiac arrest on me maybe? I was going to be dead if things got too lively, how much more dead do you think I’m going to be if she dies? Yeah we brought her back, yeah I got to rip open her shirt, but give me a break, please.

You know what, that settles it. I’m going to quit. I’m going to go have breakfast with Jules, and then I’m going to go kill this douche-bag boxer for Marsellus, and then I’m going to quit, AND THEN. I’m going to take a nice long vacation. Somewhere far, far away, where brains don’t explode inside cars, your partner doesn’t feel the need to recite the bible before he kills people, and where you bosses wife doesn’t OD on you for shits and giggles. Ah, paradise.

Vincent Vega