InsaneJournal

Current location:	Intrepid Buddy's House
Current mood:	exhausted beyond measure
Current music:	Random crap on YouTube

Let them hate me...
...so long as they fear me. Julius Caesar, if memory serves.



I should have known better than to expect Monday to go well. Whenever I expect something to go well lately, it all just falls the fuck apart.

First, my body decided to do its monthly rebellion of DHOOM against me. And it would prove to be the worst particular day for this fun to happen. Usually, I tend to get overly emotional *before* my uterus starts trying to claw its way out of my body and I return to something resembling rationality (as close as I get, anyhow) when I start; but this month, my body decided to wait to crank out hormones until after I started. Yay.

Well, it’d been a shit week anyway - they scheduled me for six stores in a row, which was stupid considering that I can barely do *three* stores in a row. They essentially just guaranteed that I’d miss at least one store in the run. When I got to Monday, I’d actually had adequate sleep, I just hadn’t had the time to recuperate - it takes me at least two days to recuperate from staying up for twenty-four hours. So, I was draggy to begin with. Then, I had to get up at five a.m. to do stores I hate - BPs, yay. Then, the manager of one of the stores got pissy. My superior and I counted the first store essentially without a hitch. (the hitch being the stupid new machines we have to use now that were designed by mutants with giant hands and wrists that swivel 360 degrees) So naturally, everything went horribly awry in the second store.

We counted the store, only to find out that the computer we have to send data to wasn’t accepting it. So, we had to download a *different* set of stupid machines. We were going to re-key the information from our other machines, but my superior accidentally erased her information. (the reason being, she has no goddamn luck. At all. Really.) So, whilst I re-keyed the information from *my* machine into a *different* machine, my superior went around recounting the things she’d already counted. (yay) And I ended up recounting some of her stuff, since I’m apparently really kickass at the whole ten-key thing. (as well I should be, after nearly three years)

And apparently, we recounted the store too fast, because the stupid idiot BP manager wasn’t happy with her results and refused to accept them. One of the reasons being she didn’t trust my re-key. Another reason being that her store was way short. (which means I know how much they were concerned with accuracy in the *last* inventory, which I did not attend) So my superior printed out my re-key for them to go through.

On the way to the third BP, my superior *told* me that the BP manager didn’t trust me to re-key all that shit from my machine. To say that I was pissed would understate the matter. I was so mad that I *sputtered*. When we finally got to the goddamn store, I pretty much didn’t say anything for the entire two hours - I just counted my shit. Although I did have a ‘Gods, I’d like to bean you with a frozen carp!’ moment when the goddamn idiot BP manager stared at the back of my head in the cooler, and then asked me why I didn’t tag anymore (lay little strips of yellow paper out) in a very pissy voice.

I didn’t say two goddamn words to that bitch. Although I did tell the store manager when I arrived that if the BP manager didn’t trust me to re-key, she didn’t trust me to count. And the goddamn idiot BP manager took umbrage at the fact that I said that to her employee - I don’t understand human social hierarchies in the least, and I truly don’t give a flying goddamn. (or a non-flying goddamn, for that matter) Plus the fact that people don’t like you when you tell the truth. (tough noogies on that one, kids)

We finally finished that shit and the stupid idiot BP manager accepted her stupid inventory results and STFU about it. And I was pissed that I had to go to yet *another* store - the twelve-hour Fred’s from HELL. But my mood brightened somewhat in the Taco Hell that we stopped in to grab a bite before we hit the road (and damn, am I sick of goddamn fast food) when my superior told me that the BP manager was afraid of me. Afraid! Of me! X3 Remind me to point and laugh. Also, I’m permanently out of the BPs, because the stupid bitch apparently objects to me stand up to her. OH SEE MY GRIEF. *throws confetti* LET THEM HATE ME, SO LONG AS THEY FEAR ME.

Anyway, we went to the Fred’s. Which was no fun whatsoever. Because it was the Fred’s of DHOOM. But we finally finished it. (I think I was there about an hour and a half, all total) And then, it was time for the idiot talk of DHOOM. Because someone was stupid at me. Gods, I hate workwank.

Anyway, a few nights back - don’t make me give the date, because I don’t, due to sleep deprivation, have a fucking clue - I was playing with my pocketknife in a store. (pretending that I was going to poke myself in the eye with it) And one of the idiot teenyboppers who worked for the store got pissed off that I have a sense of humour and, instead of maybe mentioning it to my fucking superior and having *her* deal with it, reported me to company headquarters. Fortunately (or not, depending upon your point of view), said superior tells me that the worst that’ll happen to me is a three day suspension. (I hope they pick Friday, Saturday, and Sunday - yay, five-day weekend)

I regret nothing. It would be a lie to say that I do, and whatever else I am, I’d prefer to not be a liar. If I have to pretend to be contrite in my ‘official statement’ to the fucking company, then whatever; I find it a distasteful act, but I do need this stupid job for at least another year. If the job market in Cookeville didn’t suck so much, it’d be a different story.

Or not. I will not lie for them.

Now, this incident disturbs me for a number of reasons; let’s see if I’m coherent enough to list them all right now.

This incident disturbs me because my company obviously cares more about their own image than whether or not I’m actually sufficiently mentally unbalanced to *perform* an act like harming myself deliberately in a store. They care more about how they look to their customers than whether I go to each and every inventory wanting to cut my own throat in the bathroom; about the fact that I’m so incredibly burnt out on this job that I’d rather jump in front of a semi sometimes than show up for work.

People can be verbally abusive - I’ve seen it happen, and had it happen to me - but I can’t have a sense of humour or speak the plain truth without someone getting pissed off. We are made to work like dogs, no sleep, without even proper breaks sometimes, and my company still cares more about its own image. They care more about how they look than paying us on time or giving raises, or giving us proper compensation for hours worked.

I’m pissed off and upset, justifiably I think. After all, going for twenty-four hours on NO SLEEP makes me do crazy shit. But Gods forbid that I should mention the fact that I’ve HAD no sleep to a customer, lest they lose faith in our accuracy - I have been flat-out *told* to not tell anyone that I haven’t had sleep. So have numerous people around me. I WILL NOT LIE FOR THIS COMPANY.

Like we give a SHIT about accuracy at the end of a forty-eight-hour goddamn day. Fuckers.

Like *I* give a shit about giving *anyone* an accurate inventory when I’d rather gnaw open my own wrists than continue to show up for stores.

I am...morally offended by the company for which I work. At this point, they could *fire* my ass, and I’d come out ahead of the game.

Anyway, after the talk in which my company’s priorities were made crystal clear - in short, they chew people up and don’t give a shit - I was, due to a combination of rage, exhaustion, and hormonal betrayal, rather upset. By which I mean I went to the goddamn bathroom and cried. I fucking cried in the goddamn bathroom. In. The. Goddamn. Bathroom.

I hate crying, above all thing. I hate to cry. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable, and I hate expressing my emotions in so public a manner. And it screws with my contact lenses. I hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it! I hate losing control like that - it’s why I rarely drink, why I don’t drink enough to get drunk, why I don’t indulge in any one of a number of euphoriants. I do not like losing control.

I despise myself for showing weakness that night.

Apparently, my superior was disturbed by it. Well, so be it - so was I.

But when I finally got home after working from six in the morning till six at night, I smoked some mugwort (a mild euphoriant, and the only such thing I’ve got in my house at the moment), played a video game for a while, and went to bed. And so ended the most hellish day I’ve had in quite some time.

Gods, I need to get away from my stupid job.



And to make it all worse, I've got a cold sore and my other rat died. *need booze*