Monday, September 28, 2009

I reach my breaking point

I'm going to get fired soon.

I keep forgetting to get the WIC checks signed at work.  WIC checks are vouchers used by poor people to purchase things like milk, cheese, and produce.

The vouchers have to be signed by the customers, or the store does not get paid.  I just got my second written warning for forgetting to get a signature.   If I get another I will be suspended and (most likely) fired.

That got me thinking, but not in a good way.

I lose my job every two or three years.  I'm getting kind of worried.  The jobs I lose are not very complicated ones.  The kind of jobs I get (and then lose) are the kind of jobs retarded people find when they "very high functioning."

Some of the mentally handicapped people I work with have had their jobs for 15 or 20 years.  Keeping the same job for 20 years seems like an impossible task for me.

I felt like shit all day. 

I forgot to take my Comtrex (that's all nothing else!) before going to work today.   I'm sick.  I had a headache with a mild fever.  My sinuses were draining into the back of my throat causing me to cough.

I am not certain if that is why I started crying at work today.  It might be because my manager told me she had "bad news" as I was getting ready to open my check stand.

I had to sign a bunch of paper work in front of customers trying to buy beer.  The customers were unhappy about the delay, because they wanted to go home and watch the football game.

Despite the hectic situation my manager tried to convey what serious trouble I was in.  She spoke in a hushed tone to me to keep the curious customers from catching on.

She had me furiously scribbling my name over copies of my "write up" all the while shielding curious courtesy clerks from reading my paper work.

The situation was laughable and most unprofessional. It is no wonder I can't take my job seriously.

But I still felt terrible. 

I sank into a pit of despair so low that I flicked my finger at a cardboard cut-out of little girl eating a Triscuit that stands at the front of my register.

"Why'd you do that?"  The grocery clerk to my left asked me nervously.

"Because that BITCH doesn't need anymore cheese."  I barked at her.

"Look at her."  I pointed to a picture of the most adorable little girl eating  a cracker you have ever seen.  "You know she just wants more cheese!"

*I'm gonna take a picture of it at work.  You'll see.

That little kid has enough cheese.  But a kid like that is never satisfied with good enough. She just uses her cuteness to get her way.

I guess you think I should just ignore that kind of shit.  But I can't any longer.

"I'm sick of people like her getting what they want."

I must have said some other stuff that I don't remember, because for the rest of the night that clerk avoided me and did not talk to me.

Not everybody ignored me though. 

BFF Jessie wanted to know why I looked so depressed.  She also wanted to know if I was going to cry.

I did not tell her that I had been holding back crying for 3 hours, and that my eyes felt puffy and my head hurt.

"It's just my life and stuff." I told her trying not to get teary eyed.

A little later in the day I talked to Leif in the break room. 

Leif and I talked about how we weren't any different from all the "unsavory types that work here."

"I mean if we were managers or something.." He paused and then added, "We might be able to fool ourselves."

"But we aren't." I interrupted.

"I mean we REALLY are just like them."  I directed that statement to myself. 

"There really in no way of getting around it." I added.

He just sort of nodded his head in approval.  Then he stood up and quietly gathered his apron and work badge and walked out of the break room.

He left me alone.

When I am alone all I have are my thoughts.

My thoughts aren't like yours.  I never have good ones.  I just have bad ones.  If you don't believe me just check out the archives of this blog.  You will never read anything in them other than me complaining, or talking shit.

I don't know what's wrong with me.

I am not going out of my way to be this negative.  I actually try to leave out some of the "more" negative things I think or feel.

I don't always do a good job of that.  Because I feel like you need to know the contingency of facts that warp my life.

Facts are what good journalists want.  And if you are a good journalist you would likely seek an explanation for my self pity by looking at my finances.

Insecurity for life is key.

It looks like the union at my grocery store is going to strike.  If we strike I won't be able to pay my bills.  Right now I am a month or so behind on my electric bill.  400 to 600 dollars a month in strike pay won't cut it.

Even if we don't strike I am sure I will be fired very soon.  I have problems staying in the real world and concentrating on routine matters like getting my WIC checks signed.

Being a dreamer is not a good idea when the only jobs you can get are the unskilled variety.  I am sure some humanities teacher taught you that unskilled labor means that you do boring, repetitive work that is closely supervised.

Most unskilled labor tasks are exactly the kind of work that brings out the worst in me.  Menial labor is mind numbingly boring. I do my best to just put up with it.  For the most part I tolerate it.  You know that I have a great capacity for tolerance.  How else do you explain walking around on a ingrown toenail for a 9 months?  

What are the other ways I cope?

I drift into daydreams.  But daydreaming is the last thing I should do.  Daydreams cause me to forget to do the little things that are required by my job that the less imaginative retard can remember to do in his sleep.

In effect my daydreams cause me to become dumber than the mentally challenged guy who dropped the bag of soup cans in the bottom of the basket last week on to an infant's head.

That makes me pretty stupid.

My daydreams are about me blowing stuff up and thereby teaching you all a lesson.

I imagine myself talking to the hostage negotiator.  He says:

"Romius, I know you are not a bad person.  I know you don't want to do this."

But I always tell the guy that I stand up for all the millions of people who die without dignity.

"Do you think that all those dying babies in Africa with flies in their eyes give a shit? They want me to take a few of you out with me.  They don't think we are nice people.  They just don't have the energy to strike out at you.

If they could they would all go out like I am, strapped to a bomb and killing as many overweight Americans waddling through the mall as they could!"

All I have is blind, impotent rage. 

Folks, that's my plan.

I have nothing else.  I have no way of things getting better.  I have 30 to 40 years of the same old shit.  Trying to hold on to a job that I think is beneath me WHEN ALL THE EVIDENCE POINTS OTHERWISE.

Even when I have a job it won't pay enough for me to go to the doctor when I need to.  I don't have a car.  I won't ever be able to ask a girl out on a date.  Who'd want to date me anyway?

I can't get laid. 

I have not been laid in 4 or 5 years.  I stopped counting it's been so long.  I see the women in my line.  I see the intimacy between them and their boyfriends.  I see them making play fights with him.

I see you kissing  your boyfriend right in front of me.  You do it on purpose, just to throw it in my face that I will never get you.

I guess I am supposed to take the wink you give me, or the arched eyebrow, or the lingering caress of your finger on mine as I hand you back your set of car keys, and go home and jerk off to THAT all day.

I don't need that.

I have the INTERNET bitches.  I can watch girls getting pissed on, or watch teen girls playing peak a boo with their cleavage on youtube.

I need to give up.

That's why I bought a pizza and Coke for tomorrow. Monday Night Football.  I also bought more Little Debbie Cupcakes.  You don't care if I get fat, because I am already disgusting to you.

It won't matter of course.

I am dying.  I probably won't get to any of you.  It always takes a few years to go from having a plan to having the balls to do something.

In that time I will die from MERSA, or cancer, or the toe infection, or from running to catch the last bus on Sunday, and having the bus driver smile as he drives right past my hobbling legs, the hammering pain of my toe plunging into me, causing my ankle to overcompensate and fracture, leaving me with one of those boot casts that half the clerks at my store have had to wear from having ingrown toe nails, and what the fuck is going on with the ingrown toenails? Is there some kind of new plague? Three clerks have had the boot cast.  They each have warned me to get my toe fixed.

The bus driver left me stranded.

Now what? Call a taxi?  Call your best friend?  Maybe you can just walk home and curse at the gods.

I could fix things.

Quit telling me to fix things.  I can't fix anything.  If I got my toe fixed, then I would have to get the sebaceous cyst fixed, and the stuff growing in my testicles, and the acid-reflux disease. And whatever is making my throat close up.

I would have to go to work and concentrate, and write down all my little signatures, and make sure every one signs whatever stuff they are supposed to sign.

I would have to pay back all the money I owe.

I know "in theory" one could do those things.

I am not unhinged.

Don't let all those motherfucking reporters tell the world I was unhinged.  I am not. I can see exactly what is wrong. I know how to ask a girl out.  I am not so stupid as to be inept.

I just see the futility of living.

Living out my life plan and giving in to the futility of it  would give me a chance to give all you X-tians a chance to say that Atheism leads to barbarism.

If I finally reach my breaking point it will BECAUSE life has no meaning.  If I break it will be BECAUSE of my Atheism.

No longer will all the smug Reddit/atheism folk be able to say that no one KILLS because of Atheism.  I will fuck all that up for you.

I have written miles of philosophy on this:

I don't have to go over that there is no god, that life is meaningless, that what most of what you do will amount to such naked mediocrity that we should be ashamed of it, that purpose is an illusion, that morality is a sham- we are all passive participants in genocide every day- and the only response I have to that fact is mocking irony- that I don't give a shit about it- and want nothing to do with making it stop-that being a passive agent to misanthropy only makes me want to be an active agent to my own destruction.

I will reach my breaking point one day.

And it will not be funny anymore.  I am not certain how many indignities you think I can tolerate.  Listen up society. Respect is a two way street.  If you keep throwing shit at me you can't expect me to just keep taking it.  

I am not going to sit at my register and hide my tears forever. I am not going to bow my head and be ashamed.  I am not going to accept the punishment you have to offer. 

I will STRIKE back!

Don't be shocked when I do.  It's about time someone fought back.


You had it coming.


Steph said...

You all have ingrown toenails because they don't pay you enough to buy decent footwear. You have to cram your poor feet into Walmart or Payless plastic shoes. Life is just as pointless as you say and I am often ashamed at procreating on the off chance that my beautiful offspring figures it all out. Finally, I'm feeling pretty bad for you right now. You can officially redeem that empathy coupon I had you hold on to.

DrugMonkey, Master of Pharmacy said...


You know what would have been the most common type of post by someone in my profession in your predicament?

A screeching, hate-filled rant about the worthlessness of people on WIC, full of vile and the unfairness of how this program to support these people (and it would be clear what was meant by *these*) is going to get you fired.

You didn't do that. Which earns you respect from me greater than that I have for many of my co-workers.

I hope you don't break, and i know sometimes the only reason not to is because doing so just means they have won.

I daydream at work too, I fucked up those WIC coupons back in the day, and I'm a union brother.

Hang in.

Romius T. said...

I have the best readers in the world. Sometimes you guys are the only reason I can hang on. The blog itself is juvenile and poorly written. But somehow you go beyond what I write and infer what I mean. For that I can only be grateful.

Alecia said...

i don't know what to write in response to this. i enjoyed reading it in all its disturbing glory. i feel bad for you man, you've got a rough hand.

fuck the man...don't let it break you.

Romius T. said...

I'm gonna do my best.

vikas pandey said...

You are too with words.