I Need Something Hard and 95% Tequila

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.

Anecdotes of a 10.25 Girl - Not a Story of Prostitution

PART I

Alright, so after my friend classified my blog as one giant leap passed neurotic, I figure I should simmer down a little bit. In a perfect world, my posts would mimic a giant magnet and draw all the loony, self-deprecating, emotionally retarded people in this world who thankfully, probably make up enough of the population for me to publish a book and become New York Times Best Seller (because that's hardly a difficult feat - Danielle Steele has been doing it since the 80s...
...cough) and a household name; creator of the world's most profane and inane bathroom reader in the history of accepted 'while-you-dump' material. And if this were the case, then I probably should avoid talking about something as personal as my place of work in case my boss of the moment/past decides to pick up my Bathroom Reader in all it's disclosed glory and turn to the chapter on Work and decides to sue me for slander and defaming of the company's reputation. But I've never been one to do take the practical, ass-covering route.

After reading your post, Arlia, I have to disagree. Whoever said that "Minimum work receives minimum pay" was off his or her fucking rocker. Or had to have born before the 1960s when slaving away for 40 years at a job would garner you a pretty little package and pension at the end of your 65th year. Because now, with the hands-on work that doesn't involve the raping and upkeep of computers or tablets or programming the latest upcoming Angry Birds: Deforestation Edition or another app to ensure that we have something to glue our eyes to in order to communicate as little as possible with the outside world; people don't have steady jobs nor do can they be assured that if they perform their duties passably, that they will be rewarded with raises, bonuses, opportunities for advancement, and ultimately, loyalty. Plus, what you earn for a living is not adjusted according to the amount of work put into a job. I think that ideal was eviscerated having always had rank and hierarchies where royalty sat at the top of the pyramid, squandered the land's money in ways they deemed fit, and generally pomped around making sure their bellies were full, their armies were loaded, and the rest of the community who sat at the bottom of the pyramid were intimidated enough into loyalty to go without but still be poised to defend the royal family. Today, people  born into money are still provided easier access to higher education, which gives them a fast-track to better jobs, and then the cycle of wealth continues, with most having  do far less work than your average middle class-er to sustain their privileged lifestyle. But earning six figures doesn't equal doing back-breaking labour. It means your either extremely well educated, are a talented entrepreneur, can decipher the stock market, are in the entertainment business, are a successful politician, a lawyer, or you've cheated, schemed, or ass-kissed your way into a corporation and are a higher up or a CEO. Now, I know for a fact that while these professions require work as any other jobs do, there is no way that any of them can measure up to the bone-breaking, head-exploding annoyance that is retail. It's hard work, no play, and I'll bet my last fucking dollar that neither Donald Trump, Shaq (who is now doing Bentley commercials), any of the Kardashians, stock brokers, surgeons, or any high profile lawyers have to clean toilets as part of their 'jobs.' Although doctors may have it worse with the whole colonoscopy thing.

Retail is the harbor, the fucking poster boy of minimum wage suckery. The fast food industry, clothing stores, waitressing; welcome to the first step on the stairway of life. You are making the least amount of money that employers can legally pay you, you receive probably about 1/8th of their commitment (because fuck if we aren't a dime a dozen) and you are put in the shittiest, most brain numbing, physically/mentally exhausting and ergonomically unfriendly conditions imaginable. Plus, there is no HR in retail so your only choice is to choke down your forkful of complaints like your mom's pot roast. How do you make a decent living? We gotta work our way up. So from where I'm standing it looks like a piece of paper announcing your Bachelor of Whatever and coughing up upwards of 20,000 dollars is what separates the flipping of burgers for 10.25 from getting 30 an hour to answer phone calls and file important documents. Not that I'm saying all people who earn 6 figures a year don't work their asses off - but I know for a fact that you get your foot in the door or your ass in bed with the right people, and huzzah, you've got money. For instance, you don't have to be a computer genius, a Michelin Star Chef or even a goddamned intellectual to be on Dr. Phil. Actually, it's probably preferred that you aren't.

 I understand that there's got to be shitty jobs. What I don't understand is that working shitty jobs entitles you to shitty pay. I believe that having worked in retail for 3 years now gives me the right to do a little bitching. Now I believe any job in which you have to deal with the public, should at least give you benefits. If I have to deal with the ignorance, impertinence, rudeness, cluelessness, cheapness, and the abject idiocy of people on a daily basis, I better fucking know that my therapy is covered. It is in the interest of both the franchise owners, the managers, and the employers that the people sweeping up the shit don't go off and blow the brains out of all of their coworkers out of a crazed, underpaid, monotony-fueled impulse. Take working with coffee for instance. There is no way I am paid or trained enough to deal with coffee drinkers. You all will kill me with your complicated Latte orders (if you want no foam, extra hot, half-sweet, decaf, 1%, double cupped no sleeve, cinammon drizzle, how DARE you get on my ass about you waiting 5 seconds over the two minute mark.) As much as I'd love to be your personal attendant and be there with a napkin to dab your lips for crumbs on command, I'd rather shoot myself into a hole in the ground, thank you.