Let myself sleep in later than I had intended, this morning. Even though it meant forgoing my morning poop, I figured I needed the extra Z’s to prepare me for my 6th day at the crap job. No pun intended. I try to be positive about my retail position- try to look at it as a means to an end. But, that’s not really working out for me. The problem is that I don’t give a shit what people wear. I don’t care if they buy the damn jeans or not. If you don’t want ‘em, don’t get ‘em. No biggie. Of course, when you’re being told every couple of hours what your ‘SPH’ (sales per hour) is, and asked how you plan on improving it, you feel kinda stressed. And, quite honestly, this is NOT the kind of stress a 33-year-old woman needs to welcome into her daily life. No sir. Especially when the question being posed is by someone ten years my junior. Its funny, its not even my ego that has the problem- trust me, I’ve been checking in. I just don’t wanna do it. I can’t fake the enthusiasm much longer. I know it’s only been 6 shifts. So what I say. So fucking what? I quit.
After working five hours of what was supposed to be a nine-hour shift, I was sent home. Due to my crappy SPH no doubt. It was a welcome release, though I had to feign disappointment, as I learned from a co-worker that being sent home early was a BAD thing. So I played along, pretending that I was oh-so disappointed in myself, blah blah blah. And then I walked out the door with a spring in my step. Even better, I caught a ride home from the subway with my lovely mother and stepfather, Dennis (aka Denny).
Because you get worked like a horse at the crap job, I was barely walking when I got home- so famished was I (you don’t have to believe me, I don’t care). Denny fires up the barbecue and I vanish into the basement to satiate my Facebook craving. I see that Gabby is still living the fabulous life in Miami, dining on foie gras and lounging at the beach. Le Bambi is living it up in Gay Paris, and by the looks of her picture, is becoming quite the Parisienne (at least, what I IMAGINE a Parisienne to look like). Ah, the lives of others, what a welcome retreat. Then Mutah (my bastard cat) stuffs his face and throws it all up on the floor- complete with that weird ‘aahcaack’ sound cats make when vomiting. Ah, the life of Ayesha, what an unwelcome reality check.
I smell the burgers, so venture out in search of my meal. They look great, I can see some peppers sticking out of them with flecks of coriander. The buns are all ready. But wait, what is that green fuzzy stuff? Denny, these buns are moldy. I watch my Denny stuffing the burger into his face, my mother not far behind. They look at me like I’m crazy. Denny says ‘Yeah, they’re starting to go.’ Starting? Um, how about they’re already gone? Nope. The Parents aren’t buying it (as previously indicated- selling is not my forte). I can smell something funky, and it is definitely the buns. Green, fuzzy, stinky buns. Not going to eat them. I am viewed as somewhat ridiculous and ‘picky’ because of my bun refusal, which is actually slightly appalling. But, whatevs. I know I’m not ‘third world’ enough. Its cool. I’m secure in who I am. So be my guest- enjoy the stinky buns.