Today was the first time I shamelessly embezzled company money for beer, which I drank on the clock.
About a week ago, this guy at work I'm never scheduled with was on the salesfloor for something and was bent over by the register. So, I tea bagged him. Snuck up behind him and dropped by balls on his dome. With my pants on, of course, 'cause I don't want him to get the wrong idea or anything. Anyway, that was the pivotal point in my career when I had officially tea bagged EVERY employee at the store. Until my boss hired two more a couple days later...Young girls. They're each 18. They're probably too young to understand that sexual harrassment isn't a bad thing like the blurbs on tv say, but a good thing, like everything else I do when I feel overworked, underpaid, and bored with life in general. So what am I supposed to do? Immediately surrender my proverbial "tea bagged all coworkers" trophy after just a few days just because I don't want to be misunderstood and unemployed again? Fuck that. I can pull it off. I'm the mother fucking Jimi Hendrix of tea bagging. Like, I'll put the scissors on the floor and then say, "Hey, would you mind cutting that thing over there real quick?" And then when the bend over for the scissors, SHABLAT! I drop the mother fucking curtain. Or when a coworker is about to go on break and they ask if you want some coffee or something, and you're like, "Yeah, here's a couple dollars." And you hand some money towards them and when they almost have it, you drop it, then they reach down to get it and you smach their skull with your bean bag. That's a classic. Then the one where you run up and knock them over, then after they hit the ground you power squat and bruise their third eye with the massive orphan factory dangling between your legs. Yeah. Newbies can't step to those moves. They're not fast enough.
Last night my girlfriend was in a car accident, but she's ok. I picked her up from the E.R. and took her home. People were over at her place visiting her roommates, and sadly, most of them were bold enough to talk to us, which is exactly what I DON'T want on my day off. They were all wondering what happened to her either because of the splint on her arm, the gossip surrounding the event, or the demolished car that was towed to the sidewalk outside her house. In one of her tellings about her time with the doctor, during which it was decided she would have to come back for another x-ray once the swelling went down, one particular stoner haphazardly plucking an out of tune guitar with a broken string decided to interject with his meaningless insight regarding how x-rays work. He concluded by deciding that she received "bullshit hospital work." He was about 19 and his mother worked in a hospital, so he knew "a lot about these things." That would have been difficult to believe if he was sober or a good guitarist, but his current state and activity nullified his credibility altogether.
I like how when something bad happens to someone, everybody else takes it as an invitation to start ranting about anything they've gone though, preferably a more traumatic event to make the current one seem more tolerable, but the result is always a contest about who's suffered the most. Which is fucking pointless among middle class white people. Anyway, we had to go through this with everyone in the room on our way out the door so we could go to the store, and when we finally got outside some people smoking cigarettes managed to get the ball rolling again and point out that her insurance would go up. No shit? Is that what happens after a car accident? Your insurance goes up? RAAAAH don't talk to me I want to leave it's cold outside life is too short to stand in the cold while someone repeatedly points out the obvious FUCK
Everything is fine now because my woman has lots of pain killers and I'm at home where no one is talking to me.
Ok. I'm going to bed.
Today is both my second day of work and of normal colored urine since I fell ill almost a week ago. After my lunch break I felt radiant and was picturing myself unwinding after work by drinking a beer and eating something unhealthy, as was the tradition mere days ago. As I washed my hands in the bathroom, I looked into my mouth, because my throat was still kind of sore and inflamed feeling. The back of my throat was covered with white growths and swollen so much you could barely make out the whole behind the tongue where stuff goes when you swallow it, or where it comes from when you puke it back up. I didn't think this was much other than cool and attempted to show it off to my manager, who reacted by getting very stressed and promptly smoked a cigarette before sending me to urgent care. I sat for hours with all of the other sick, poor people, doing my best to take short breaths as if that would somehow reduce the amount of air I shared with them. A nurse called me back and asked if I had been caughing up pleghm. A little, I said. She made me put on a gown. The dense lint coating the entire grown hinted at its age, and though it had obviously been washed many times, I found myself wondering just how much phlegm had been caughed up on this very gown before. Kind of like when you go to a motel and tuck yourself into the bed and feel new found security for a few precious seconds before you wonder how many collective gallons of semen have saturated your immediate surroundings in the not so distant past. You know that they get washed and the biohazards PROBABLY all get destroyed, but you don't have a microscope so you can't be sure. I can't remember where I was going when I started this entry. Something about how sick I am. Now all I can think about is how bad I want a microscope. Oh yeah, the doctor came in and looked down my throat and all the muscles in his face went slack and he just said, "...Impressive..." before taking a sample to send to the lab. So I'm probably pretty sick.
I have a fever and I'm hallucinating a lot, which is fine. I spoke with my mom on the phone yesterday when I still felt at least emotionally fit for human company, and she tried explaining in fragment sentences dusted with menopause and optimism that she thought everything happened for a reason. I made sounds with my mouth over the phone that I hoped could be read as the verbal equivalent of smiling and nodding, but I don't think everything happens for a reason at all. For almost two full days, my piss has been the color of old pennies. Not when they get that green stuff on them, just when they get a get a darker, more full bodied tone, but haven't completely lost their sparkle. More on that later, probably.
There are several people that come into my work whom I seriously expect will die in there. They've let their lives be reduced to so little that all of their emotions ride on their cigarettes, so when prices or availability change, their delicate worlds crumble before them. One that comes readily to mind is a very overweight man in one of those scooters for people who are not actually handicapped, but that are less inconvenienced by having their family get a scooter compliant vehicle than they are by walking. I don't mean to come across as caustic, because when he talks to me, while I can't make out what he's saying, the tone that barely escapes the heavy curtain of nicotine and fast food induced lethargy pulling his lips together does seem polite. I had a revelation one day when he was struggling with his wallet or something and managed to not notice his scooter was moving. It crashed into the display nearest our cash register, causing cheap, Taiwanese merchandise to scatter in the narrow confines of our impulse shopping case. Myself and the other employee on the clock were only slightly amused at the time, but he was very excited and began hyperventilating. He mustered enough strength to apologize and state that his scooter had done that on its own. Clearly devastated, he left the store evidently in fear of the machine that he relied on, now that it had turned on him once, who knew what it was capable of? A middle aged man he often came in with that bares a resemblance and may be related came in days later saying he heard one of our cases had been wrecked or something. It took me a moment to figure out what he was referring to, but I brought up the aforementioned incident. "Oh yeah, that must be what he was talking about." He replied. Thinking about it later, it only made it seem worse to me realizing that the first guy no longer had the strength to tell a story with enough coherence to even express what was happening in that story. That's something funny about working with the public, particularly someplace that sells cigarettes, is meeting so many people that treat "not contributing to society" as an extreme sport. People who milk welfare dollars to buy food and tobacco manufactured overseas on land that used to accomplish something other than making Americans go into 20 years of dormancy before a prolonged death piss me off when they spend my tax dollars on gradual suicide.