Time for some whinging. Feel free to tune out.
I hate my job.
Hate, hate, hatehatehate!
Normally, I would quickly add: "But I am thankful that I at least have a job.
I know I'm really lucky."
But do you want to know a secret?
I'm not thankful. I'm not thankful at all.
And I don't really think I'm lucky. (By what stretch of the imagination am I lucky?) I think my life sucks and it's never going to get any easier and why can't someone just take care of this shit for me? That's what I really think. I think I am always going to be poor and I'm never going to be able to pay back my loans or get my own apartment or travel or do anything fun, ever.
I am so tired of working in stupid stores selling stupid shit to stupid people who don't actually need any of it. I am tired of mean bitches talking to me like I'm an idiot, or some kind of lowly servant girl, or a subclass of human. I am tired of busting my ass for a measly $8-minus-taxes an hour, while my lazy coworkers hide in the breakroom or go outside to smoke or leave early without telling anyone. (M says I think I'm better than them -- but I don't think that. I know it.)
I am tired of being so goddam agreeable all the time.
I am tired all. the. time.
They keep telling me I need to smile more.
My first thought is always, unexpectedly, "Fuck you."
I fear that there is no justice in the world.