I will start my fourth week of work tomorrow. I have taken out references to the name of my workplace in previous posts so I can, as Aaron Nevillle sang, tell it like it is.
I really hate this job. But I’m staying. For now. I cried every night the second week, but I think by last week I had accepted my fate. I need a job, and this is it for the time being.
Here’s the deal: I am doing okay with most of the other employees. Some can go toss a freakin’ salad, but that’s neither here nor there. I know now that I stole “Les Nessman’s” job from him. He should have been promoted to the thankless job I got, and why he wasn’t is the eternal head scratcher. BUT, he went to part time to keep his benefits and got a great new job. So frankly, he’s doing better than me! It all worked out on his end.
People buy crap books to read. If I see another Eat Pray Love (a.k.a.Miserable Rich White Whining Bitch) or The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Who Ate the Peanut or whatever the hell that Swedish series is called walk out the door, I will SCREAM. People ask me if I’ve read it and I’ve gone from a simply “No,” to “I don’t do what everyone else is doing. I’m a contrarian.” That one really puzzles them.
I have never been hit on so much as I have in the last four weeks. I would love to tell you I am a stunning supermodelesque beauty, but frankly, I resemble no one so much as a young Stockard Channing. Seriously. Old gay men have told me this. But now, I have been told everything from “I’m coming back just to see you,” to “Are you Dominican? Because you have everything a Dominican man could want.” Be still my heart.
I have been sneezed on, coughed on, and handed slobber toys. At the end of the day, my feet are numb. Okay, just my left one. But still. And I have been forced to listen to music. Such music! Over and over and over again. Opera singer Reneé Fleming singing Evanescence. Non! Quelle horreur! Sarah MacLachlan, aka Human Lunestra. The evil ego-monster that is Sting, complete with some philharmonic backing him. And worst of all, this guy: David Garrett. He’s German! That explains it. Some classical lite violinst playing “Master of Puppets” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on his Strad. I want to die. I mean DIE.
True story: One of the Wi-Fi stealers (people who spend all day in the store using the free Wi-Fi and nothing else) came back in from one of his 10,000 smoke breaks and walked up to me to ask, “Do you ever get sick of this music? I mean, don’t you hate it? Especially this violin playing?”
With the fire of 1,000 suns, my nicotine friend.
Well, that’s about it, ya’ll. I read something today that said blogs are going the way of the dodo bird, and I’d hate for that to be the case here, so I will try and post more when I can. I’m just so damned tired and burned out, it’s tough.