Today was a day straight from hell. That is if some scaly, red gnome
living within the fiery pits of Hades enjoys bringing about suffering in
the form of furious precipitation, first days of school, and floor sets
that involve picking up and moving all of the shit in the store to a
new location, hanging signage of doom, and staying until 1:30 finishing
it all...
Tuesday must have brought the ass-end of a hurricane coming up from
the South because it rained like Zeus decided to piss for the first time
in a millennium. I mean, this shit would have murdered Chicken Little. The subway station flooded (as did pretty much everything else), thereby forcing my friend
and I to sprint through the downpour, looking like two drowned rats
without umbrellas. Now I know people have bigger problems (I mean, we
could have got the actual hurricane) but having your shoes,
shirt, pants, and underwear soaked through when you are not in
possession of a towel is when you have to look at your life and say
'fuck it.' Unless I am devoid of clothing and underneath a shower head, I
have absolutely NO desire to be that wet again EVER.
So
me and my squeaky rain-filled sneakers went to work and got to slosh
around in them for the next 10 hours while lifting boxes, arranging
candles and creams, putting together decorative fake leaf arrangements
all while mentally wishing someone would stab me in the eye with an
Exacto knife and put me out of my misery.
Then, as a giant,
ironic cherry on top of my pot cake, after work I spent an hour waiting
for my connecting bus to go home, during which I had the pleasure of
meeting, talking, and growing hopelessly and irrevocably attached to a duck named
Doug*, only to realize an hour later that my bus didn't run after 1:30.
*Alliteration
pleases me to pieces, I don't know if you've noticed. If people use it
unconsciously, I have to restrain myself from glomping them from sheer
appreciative joy. There is a certain sensual rhythm to alliteration
which explains why comic books just do it for me. I've gone back and
forth whether to name my kids Barnabus and Betty Black. What kind of
adults will they be if they don't have to rise above adversity?
But on the plus side, I'm only just sitting alone beside a deserted gas
station, hoping that I don't get mugged by the dude who thought I was
walking my pet duck, chatting to Doug, who is more interested in
drinking the water from the tiny puddles in the road. Despite that, we
bonded. I rescued (and chastised) him from his reckless suicide attempt
where he walked off the edge of the sidewalk onto the road. He responded
to my yells to move his fucking ass feathers by meandering back
onto the grass but not before shitting by my feet. I had trouble
parting with the little asshole I'm not gonna lie. I may have
contemplated shoving him in my purse and kidnapping him so that I could
have his company at home and build him his own bed out of old clothes
and grass (he loves grass), I eventually had to walk the remaining 20
minutes home through a most delightful neighborhood. I got to walk by
several places where people have been stabbed, shot, and sexually
assaulted, through social housing, under the [Molester's Wet Dream]
bridge, and through the mini fucking forest where rabid, horse-sized
raccoons eyed me hungrily from within the foliage, waiting for me to
trip so they could dine on my flesh. Cough. I might have been wielding
my cell phone like a light sabre/sword in case of surprise attacks. You
would think I hadn't spent many a night post-clubbing travelling home
alone after 3am, more often than naught coming off the tail end of a
fabulous buzz. Sobriety brings out the pussy in all of us.
Anywho,
I get home, and then recall that I was scheduled to work at the same
time as school the next day and I had to reschedule so I text my boss to
confirm that I don't actually have to drag my ass in at 8. It's 3:25,
and she texts me back at 4 saying she'll see me in 4 hours. Now I should
really author a book on how to make employers hate me. I need to go to
school to learn how to become self-employed because I really know how to
impress the pants off of people, but I'm like a wham, bam, thank you
ma'am kind of chick and the impressionable thing kind of wears off when I
am forced into situations that are not exactly pleasant for me. And
this is not just me being a whiny bitch, mind you, I REFUSE to break my
back and gain grey hair over retail. If your paying me 20+ an hour, then
I'll kick my own ass and swallow my tongue, but at 10.25, that won't
even cover the cost of my casket if you drive me to an early death, so
no. I won't over-exert myself.
But I totally do. See? I
tell you what's in my head, but I'm the kind of person who will avoid
saying no to a shift, I'll overbook myself, and not tell anyone until
last minute, because I don't want to make waves. What I really want to
do is go all Jason Statham on everyone's asses but I don't have a sweet
ass ride or a hot British accent. Or a penis. But that's just sexism. So
what happened was I slept in, missed my shift, and was late for school.
I only got 4 hours of sleep, was trying to avoid passing out and
failing and almost drifted off standing up and barely avoided
head-to-shelf contact, had bigger bags than that Monopoly asshat
underneath my eyes, and was really, REALLY not looking forward to
explaining to my boss why I hadn't shown up for a shift. My reputation
blown to smithereens, I do what I always do in these situations. Avoid,
procrastinate, and avoid some more.
When I got home, I fall face first into my plate of pizza and sleep for the next 10 hours.
**72 hours later update:
Still haven't talked to my boss. Missing Doug. Am plotting on how to
get myself fired. And win the lottery. To buy all the pet ducks I want
and start my own duck-raising farm where I can have hot, Brad Pitt
(circa Thelma & Louise) lookalikes be my duck-rearing farm men. Whom
I'll obviously pay handsomely. Ahem.
No comments:
Post a Comment