I've decided to write a novel.

My novel won't be any good, I know that already. But the idea of writing a novel  really interests me. I've discussed my novel ideas with ChatGPT. Chat Bots are supposed to remain positive and encouraging. But I think even the CHAT GPT is getting bored with my pretension. 

"Is there anything else you want to discuss?" It asks.

Just my novel asshole. What else does a failed writer like me have to talk about? 

I promise my novel is totally unique. It's fucking meta. It's David Foster Wallace post-modernism with a twist of American style minimalism. Think Bukowski and Carver. 

Wait, can I get an editor here please Mr. ChatGPT? 

Well since you and Chat GPT don't want to talk about my novel, do you wanna talk how I quit my job today?  Well I did. Because pushing carts in the Floridian heat is insane at 52. I just couldn't handle the sweat. Not to mention it rains every fucking day here. My shorts and socks are soaked.  All my limbs were exhausted from pushing carts. There's no rest at Costco. Done pushing carts? Go unload 50 pound pallets.

Struggling with all that exertion? Do not  confide in your fellow 50 year old employee.  Because he will taunt you with how he can handle the heat and wonder why you "can't even lift 50 pound items over your head?"  He will point out how a 20 year old "former nanny" can "at least she can push 10 carts at a time and stay positive."

Seriously, I'm getting advice from that Gen Z kid.  The one who "struggles with anxiety" and can barely summon the courage to EXIST socially, but tried to perk me up with words of encouragement. "You just can't be so hard on yourself. It's YOU that's putting all the pressure on YOU."

Christ I didn't see that coming Nanny. Terrific. The nanny is more adapted to working than I am. My failure is complete young, Skywalker. I'm too obvious a fuck up. 

working harder is not better.

I had to work harder than I wanted to. I thought getting through the paperwork and the stupid videos would mean some relief. I worked 20 years in grocery stores so I assumed my experience would make things easy. 

I was wrong. The fast pace and the awkward boxes along with the strange looks from the supervisor made me nervous. No one taught me what to do. In the vernacular of corporatism I wasn't given proper expectations. I just sort of made things up as I went along. Because I didn't do things under normal procedure I was constantly admonished for doing things wrong. 

"Not the warehouse way." Patty told me. Patty was in her 50s and looked as serious as time had been to her face. She had fake blonde hair and was thin and slight. 

"Don't let my size fool ya!" "I'm tougher than I look." And she was. She had no problems lifting the large items or keeping pace with customers. She was faster then me. And you could tell she was a bit disappointed that she drew my help. 

Patty didn't trust anyone. I was told to look through clothes and shoe boxes for hidden items like batteries. 

"People are always trying to steal." She'd say.

My pride and my muscles began to ache. I wasn't good at the tetris required required. My visual spatial acuity wasn't up to speck. I didn't turn the boxes correctly. I began to sweat profusely from the constant motion. The warehouse wasn't exactly cool though the air conditioner trired it's best.

I overheard snips of conversations from my fellow trainee and his supervisor. He gave very specific instructions and expectations. I tried to model what I heard, but I couldn't hear everything he said and do my job at the same time. There were no water breaks or rest periods. If you looked up you saw endless lines and customers. 

Many of the customer were nice. Some noticed me struggling and even offered to help me out. They gave me hints were to pack or when to use a box. 

I tried using my best customer service voice and tricks and managed to make most of my customers forget that I kept putting hot stuff on top of cold items. A rookie mistake that a man with over 20 years experience in grocery shouldn't make. But the pace of packing and movement had me seriously out of my game. 

Welcome Back! PalmGehtto 2.

I always ended up back with family in Palmetto when things got bad. 

I was on the verge of homelessness in Phoenix, but here I could live on my brother's couch.  Sleeping on the couch meant constant interruptions to my sleep. Between both my brothers going to work, a kamakazi cat that zig zagged through the tiny 3 bedrooms slammng it's head into doors, my nephew's girlfriend sleeping on the opposite couch, and the curtainleess windows exploding with Florida sun in mid morning, I never slept more than 3 hours in a night.

I got my first job 3 weeks into it. A huge warehouse where I packed groceries. If it wasn't for the local kava bar I spotted next to it, I wouldn't have gone through with the interview. And only the promise of a few drinks afterwards got me through the first night of watching orientation videos about smiling and filling out paperwork for hazmat. 

The folks at the warehouse were super serious about their warehouse and grocery store though they only offered part time to all new hires.

"You see it's how we can see how commited you are to the company."

I was not committed. 

""Once you earn our trust, we will give you all the things like insurance, full time work, and stability." The kind of stuff companies used to give you when they offered you a job. But nowadays just offering decent pay, or benefits made these guys heroes to the working man.

3 minute late punches were counted against you and the job offered you 4 chances to be late a day. Punch in to start, punch out for lunch, punch back in after lunch, and out one more time when leaving. They were almost daring you to screw yourself. 

in a life filled with error, stupidity, and mistakes did I just make the worst one yet?

As usual of course I did. Not that it matters in some sense we all knew how this blog ends.