I had to work yesterday for the first time in a week.
Worked in the box office from 2:30 to 6:00; worked a show from 6:00 to 9:00. The customers who attended the show formed a parade of selfish, whiny assholes with special requests and complaints. Slimy, no good, jerkoffs.
It was as hideous, as painful, as soul-suffocating, as vile and as revolting as being submerged in a cesspool up to my chin with only a straw to breathe through, while Beelzebub dropped large rocks into the sewage for the sheer joy of creating waves.
It fucking sucked.
By the time I made my escape at 9:00, I was furious and incredulous. From 5:00 pm on Tuesday through the end of Thursday I was blissful. On Friday morning I woke up with hints of the typical work day dread, which eventually became unbearable by the time I fell into my car for the commute.
My mind was screaming in horror and disbelief.
The contrast between that torment and the previous bliss resulted in supreme motivation. So ultimately, the fact that I had to work yesterday was a good thing. It woke me up, it shook me up, it solidified in my brain what has to be done.
That job is toast, baby.
Once that is dealt with, I may just empty out my bar. I won't need alcohol anymore.
Never mind. That's not going to happen.
That would just be stupid.
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