Aw’right, kids, I’m back. Not in top form by any means, but whatever. I was freakishly ill on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Started getting better on Wednesday. I probably would have recovered a bit quicker if I hadn’t been working ten and eleven-hour days, but that’s how it goes, I guess.
I almost went to bed tonight, even though it’s extremely early, but I decided to stay up and do a little writing instead. The day a job keeps me from writing when I feel like writing is the day that I get to start looking for the next shitty job in the lineup.
Speaking of the job, that shit is really getting on my nerves lately. I’ve been up at six each morning, at work by six-thirty, trying to get caught up. And it just ain’t hapn’n. Every day, working until late, tonight I didn’t get home until seven o’clock. It’s ridiculous, it really is.
This is just me ranting, of course, but I’m also trying to explain how aggravating it is to be so tired from working my shit job while fighting sickness (or even if I’m not fighting sickness—this shit wears me out) that I can’t write when I get home. I’m going to have to get my priorities straight. I mean, it would be one thing if I was a television executive, right? Making tons of money, doing expensive drugs, balling complete strangers in the bathroom at parties—I see how difficult it could be to find writing time with a lifestyle such as that.
But when someone is paying you a sneeze over minimum wage to work yourself until you can’t see straight, that’s just bullshit. I’m not justified in complaining, by the way—I brought this on myself. See, because I wanted to get caught up last week, so I started coming in early, staying late, not realizing that it was no use. I’m two weeks in, now, they pretty much expect me to stay until I get the job done, but I think they’re in for some major freakin’ disappointment.
My boss told me long ago that he realized this was too much work, and that he was trying to hire someone to help me. That was three months ago. I recently asked him to renew his efforts. He swears that he schedules interviews, but no one ever shows up. I’m giving him two more weeks, then I’m back to regular hours, whether the job is finished or not. Walk in, work my eight hours, walk out, no explanations given.
Maybe one week. Man, I really hate working.
On the other hand, I’m losing weight. I’m still a big fat bastard, but not quite as big and fat. Like if I was in a lineup and someone said “Okay, ma’am, idenitfy the big fat bastard, and tell us the number above his head,” she might have to hesitate before deciding that I was the biggest fattest batstardest of them all. Well, until she realized that I still had her baby, I guess.
Anyway, since I’ve already babbled on so much about my job, I guess it might as well be a Rent post, and I’ll finish it off by discussing some of my co-workers. Because talking about your co-workers on the world wide web is always a good idea.
I work with this guy, he has no inside voice. The dude always yells. Believe it or not, this is only annoying every once in a while. Because unlike most people who have no low volume, this guy doesn’t just yell. He also has a tone in his voice, one that you would recognize anywhere—it’s the tone of emergency. Like when someone grabs you handbag off your shoulder and runs down the crowded city street, and you yell, “Stop, thief!” Or when the thief doesn’t stop at all, just keeps on running, and you yell, “He’s getting away!”
Or perhaps we should go with a less comic book-inspired scenario. Like when you see something falling over on someone, you yell something like, “Look out!” Or like when you’re in the Post Office and you yell, “Nobody move, or I blow her brains out! Stand back!”
Wait…not that last one—that’s a whole different tone of voice that you use there.
Anyway, so this guy is constantly sounding alarmed and in need of help. And n
Note from Ray: Right here is where the power went out in my apartment. We’ve been having a lot of storms around here for the past couple of days, which is another reason I’m so behind at work—it tends to slow things down a bit when you’re moving a pallet of hydrochloric acid that you have almost no control of whatsoever. Anyways, I just went to bed. Because, let’s face it—this was a rather dull post anyway.