I'm running a sweatshop and I'm the only employee

As you likely know from the way I’ve been in your face about it, I’m now selling ARIYNBF tshirts with the Kez logo on them. They’re perfection in tshirt form. The downside is that I have a box full of tshirts and a pile of bubble wrap mailers and another pile of some other kind of mailer and envelopes of assorted sizes and sheets of paper and also photos and buttons and stamps and construction paper and trash and none of it is doing itself.

It’s weird, you would think my sitting on the couch and giving the shirts space to really be themselves and do what they need to do would have a positive effect but instead, nada. “Look alive!” I yelled at the tshirts yesterday, blowing into a whistle and jogging in place. “You, yeah, you!” I brayed, poking one of the shirts in the chest. “What are you waiting for, an invitation? DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY AND THEN GET INTO AN ENVELOPE!” I shouted. I haven’t seen such a bunch of sorry little girls since I coached a fleet of collector’s buttons into bubble wrap a few weeks ago. It drove me to drink, so I sucked down some diet soda and then threw an energy bar over my left shoulder and rubbed chalk all over my hands and put a bunch of balls in a mesh bag. Then I inspected my shoes for termites, shaved my head for team spirit, injected some steroids into an orange (it’s a science experiment I’m performing), rubbed some grease paint under the picture of my eyes on the tshirt and then ordered everyone into the showers where the shirts began snapping themselves at one another. Again I had to blow my whistle. “Am I coaching or babysitting here? Rub some dirt in it!” I yelled, dabbing Gatorade behind my ears. I don’t get paid enough.

Here’s the base of operation: