Well today sucked. And by “today sucked” I mean I sucked. Holy crap I was a bat out of hell. I was in caged animal/I hate this/get me the fuck out of here mode for almost the entirety of my work shift. I can be such a bitch. (Hear that screech? It’s my mother rolling her eyes in Connecticut.)
I’ve mentioned before how much I dislike my job, how much I disliked the one before this and the one before that. Count ‘em, one, two, three. Loved the job I had for ten years, loved running my own business, hated pretty much everything else.
I could say my mood is short because I’m on day two of a cleanse, but that’s a load of bull. The first two days are about eating less, not eating nothing. And I know way too much about how the cleansing process works to blame my mood swing on it, so let me just get it out there: I fucking hate my job.
Clearly my cushiony wall of sugar, caffeine and carbs has already disintegrated leaving me with nothing to keep me smiling through the bullshit that is helping a multi-billion dollar clothing company make more billions by pulling espresso shots and managing twerps. (Haven’t used that word since the 80’s.) All I can rely on is the reality of the moment I’m in and when the moment spells disaster for my soul, you can bet I spell disaster for the moment.
Obviously I’m talking about first world white girl problems here, so I’m not about to get too serious. I work for good people who do business fairly with a knack for creating very satisfied customers. I’m thankful to be employed in a difficult economic climate. I’m no tree hugging live off the land hippie. I’m not anti-corporation. I’m a capitalist at heart, truly believing we should all be working our asses off for our own money, we owe our debts. I don’t envy wealthy people, nor do I have a warm fuzzy vision of a socialist future for our country. I just think I can do better than retail coffee.
OK rant over. Two mile run completed. Quinoa and kale consumed. Senna tea boiling on the stove. Tomorrow I awake to abdominal cramps, insane amounts of pooping and cayenne pepper lemonade. Keepin’ it real all the way.