Hate Your Job

You hate your job. You know you do, and you know you always will. It’s on a dead-end track to antidepressants, then depressants, methamphetamines, and then finally death. You’re like someone who drives a Ford F-150: angry for no good reason, always in a hurry to get nowhere (and by God you will kill someone to get there), and you try to pretend like you actually made a good life decision by getting it. But you still feel inadequate.



I go to the bank. It’s Monday, but for some reason I still think it’s Sunday. “Oh thank God the bank is open on Sunday!” -- Note to self: you’re an idiot. Anyway, I go to the bank, and on this particular day of the week, “Laquifa” aks me if she can help me wit somfin.

It’s not the “It-would-be-my-pleasure-to-help-you-because-it-is-my-job” greeting; no, it is the “All-my-money-goes-to-birth-control-and-rent-at-a-shitty-motel-that-agreed-to-lease-to-me” kind of greeting.

I informed her that I usually just go to ATM’s, after she was all like “usually when you make a deposit you get a receipt, too.” I should have informed her that a machine does her job faster, and with 30% less ghetto attitude.



I go to a clothing store of your mental preference. One of the employees is engaged in a riveting conversation on her cellular device while she’s supposed to be catering to my every whim.
“I’m so sorry to burden you, but if you could please do your damn job for me that would be great.” Paraphrased, of course. She gives me the stink eye. I hope she’s fat AND pregnant instead of being just fat.



I go to the financial aid office at a college of your choice. I walk up to the secretary with a smile. She’s too busy. Another one turns around, “Can I help you?” Yes, I need blahblahblah. “Do you know your student ID number?” Oh you mean the 10 digit number that is so important that you can’t find it unless you type my 10 letter name into the damn computer? No, I must have forgotten it when I was studying my book 101 Useless Numbers You Will Get Bitched At For Not Knowing. She writes it down on a card for me: “That is your student ID.” Thanks, because I didn’t pick up on the context blues clues, now where can I throw this away?

I’m sure she was just groggy from having to get coffee for the people with real jobs.



Maybe you’re just angry because you wake up the same time plants do each morning. Maybe you’re angry because you could have sworn there was one more anal bead that was supposed to come out last night. Maybe your job is too hard- the same way licking an envelope is too time consuming. Or maybe the people you work with like to put burlap sacks over your head and beat you with frozen oranges in the broom closet. There are plenty of reasons why you hate your job. But there’s only one reason why you’re still working there. You like feeling sorry for yourself. Oh, and you probably need money for diapers and hookers too.