well now that the anger has subsided.... and the rant has left me....
i get sunday off.
blink.
yes. for missing my first saturday-sunday combination since april; my reward is; "well, you can have sunday off" thanks. so with 53.5 hours on the clock this week, i was told i could leave 2 hours early. gee----thanks.
that and appearantly there was some kind of altercation outside between a yard-manager and a customer, resulting to blows! yes, the tranquility of moving blocks and fence post turned into built up rage for more people than just me this week. what a lovely place!
s
Friday, September 01, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
At least Matt salvaged some of the day with me. At least one person didn't mind the rain, the drive, or the time to come see me on my “weekend off.” Not only that, we stuck around through the downpour to watch people throw burlap bags of sheep shit over a pole. I'm grateful Staab is intelligent enough to have a conversation about the destiny of America in the near future with me. In general, its nice to see and old friend for a day. Especially on short notice, when it supposed to be you're weekend off.
So I was supposed to have Saturday and Sunday off. What a big fucking deal? A big fucking deal says You.... You, the person that doesn't think much of getting two days off in a row, especially weekend days. My happy ass became elated, when I stumbled upon these hallowed days. This was to be my first Saturday and Sunday off since March 25-26, 2006. That makes it a big fucking deal to me. So I spent most of the week getting plans lined up to do things, and see people. Then one by one everyone and everything craps out on me. The actual weekend was taken away from me, and I ended up just like I always do. Stuck at work.
See, the the idiot I work with had a relative die, leaving herself in a perpetual state of Pitty Receivable Mode. Whats that? Thats where you call into work three times a fucking day to start bawling on the phone to people that don't care. Thats were you tell us you'll show up to work, and actually come in, dressed for it, but then decide to start crying, make a big scene, and pull the managers in the back office and announce you can't do it and you need to go home. Thats a state of fucking Pitty Receipt. And since one person was off on vacation, that left me to get called in. All the time. So I lost my Friday early out. I “got” to come open the store Saturday morning at 6am, and I also “got” to close the store, by myself, on Sunday. Saturday and Sunday being my first two days “off” since March.
So I'm a little pissed about this.
Anyways, of the plans I had set; one decided to cancel out on me mid week. It actually made me mad. Because the excuse sounded lame. Lame like, “I'm reaching for a way out”--- lame. Lame like, “I'm a one legged gay pirate with a lisp and multiple sclerosis survivor”--- lame. Something like that. I work all the time. I get told, that they want to promote me way out of the area. This was the only weekend I was supposed to have off. I don't have a time line for when they want me out of here. So all excuses, when I really want to see you, sound fucking lame. Ok? Lame. F U C K I N G L A M E. Tell me the truth instead. Hows about; “Scott, you're a fucking ugly fat bastard, and I hope you die. And I'm not coming to see you.” That would be understandable. Or, “You know what, I'm not sure I'm ready to be alone with you, knowing what you're feelings are about me, maybe its too soon for me.” Thats respectable. “Scott, were having a killer party at our house, and really its going to be rough for me to drive back and be here in time before people show up, is it OK to bounce this weekend?” Thats at least got a shred of decency dropped in a shot of the truth. I got, “Uhm, I have a soccer game, sorry!” Thats fucking lame. Like you didn't know about that before now? Lame, like you'd think I consider a last minute crap excuse, to be a good reason to back out on me? And then the reason is soccer? Fuck soccer. I hate stupid fucking spotted balls. I wish to hell soccer is proved to be the reason the Holocaust occurred; because Hitler tried to purge the earth of soccer, and the diversity fairies, hiding in jewish underclothes, smuggled their soccer balls into hidden rooms, then hid behind being jewish, or black, or gay, to protect soccer. Soccer is not an excuse. Not wanting to see me, is an excuse. This is a fucking rant. I understand that. Do you?
So I lost my weekend. So what. So people make up excuses not to see me, and hope that they can just have a chance with me some other time. Well, here is news.... I wont be here. I'll be standing behind a fucking gray desk, with a 1978 TV above my head, selling toilet seats to people in trailer parks at a shitty place that calls its self a hardware store, somewhere in America. Because, thats what I want to do. Because, thats what I dreamed about as a kid. I never go to pretend I could win the World Series, or that I could cure cancer, or that I could make 10 million dollars.... I dreamed of fat people, with herpes sores, asking me which toilet seat will hold 600 pounds of human fat, and still have a big enough opening for feces to splatter through. Thats why I went to college, burned all nighters, labored through arcane languages, and did massive social research projects; all to understand how best to sell fucking toilet seats to people with 3 teeth, clad in Nascar shirts, while they beat their child in admiration of my knowledge of the color differentiation of: Natural, Biscuit, Bone, Almond, Beige and Bisque.
SO..... The next time that I should be pulled away from my life's ultimate opus, of assisting the chapped, fecal inflamed ass to the soothing nature of an off-white receptacle; maybe we can think of why I fucking value my time with you. Maybe... Maybe we can sit and come to an understanding, that I hate my life. That I hate what I fucking do. I hate who I deal with. And I hate the times I have to work. Maybe, we can merge our thoughts, and understand that I want to see the people that matter to me, and I arrange these things so they can happen. Maybe I really had wanted to see you. Maybe, just maybe, I put up with a lot of fucking shit in my daily life, and I wanted to have some kind of a special day with you... because I never see you... and because I really do care about you. AND the first time in six months I had an open weekend to see you, I set my plans with you for that. But fuck it.
Once I found out you backed out on me, then everything else started going down hill. Then the scheduling crap. Then I find myself sitting at Menard's, at 5:15am, watching the sun come up over the trees... the first rays of light on my first weekend off in six months. And I try to remember who is honestly important to me, as I walk through the puddles in the lot, avoiding nails and screws that litter the parking spaces. I want to ask, Why is this fair?, but I know the answer. It isn't. But fuck it. No one else is here to care anyhow. I should have been at the zoo. I should have been smiling and laughing, and having ice cream. I should have just had a great weekend, that would make six months feel somewhat worth it. But instead, I look up at the TV to see that my punch was accepted, and I stand at my gray desk, waiting for the first moron to come in the door at 6:01am on my Saturday.
Maybe its all overblown. Maybe its melodramatic. Maybe I should focus on the three other people that I had plans to see that blew me off. Maybe I am an idiot. Maybe I don't care anymore. Maybe it doesn't make sense why I'm focusing on this. Maybe I want to believe that you're someone you're not, and that I'm someone I'll never be. Regardless... its Saturday night, and I know I'm going to work on my Sunday off as well in a few short hours. And I just feel like taking it out where I can at this point. Maybe I just shouldn't care. But I do. Maybe, I just want something to work out for once in my life. Like the weekend off that I didn't get; maybe thats just not meant to be.
So I was supposed to have Saturday and Sunday off. What a big fucking deal? A big fucking deal says You.... You, the person that doesn't think much of getting two days off in a row, especially weekend days. My happy ass became elated, when I stumbled upon these hallowed days. This was to be my first Saturday and Sunday off since March 25-26, 2006. That makes it a big fucking deal to me. So I spent most of the week getting plans lined up to do things, and see people. Then one by one everyone and everything craps out on me. The actual weekend was taken away from me, and I ended up just like I always do. Stuck at work.
See, the the idiot I work with had a relative die, leaving herself in a perpetual state of Pitty Receivable Mode. Whats that? Thats where you call into work three times a fucking day to start bawling on the phone to people that don't care. Thats were you tell us you'll show up to work, and actually come in, dressed for it, but then decide to start crying, make a big scene, and pull the managers in the back office and announce you can't do it and you need to go home. Thats a state of fucking Pitty Receipt. And since one person was off on vacation, that left me to get called in. All the time. So I lost my Friday early out. I “got” to come open the store Saturday morning at 6am, and I also “got” to close the store, by myself, on Sunday. Saturday and Sunday being my first two days “off” since March.
So I'm a little pissed about this.
Anyways, of the plans I had set; one decided to cancel out on me mid week. It actually made me mad. Because the excuse sounded lame. Lame like, “I'm reaching for a way out”--- lame. Lame like, “I'm a one legged gay pirate with a lisp and multiple sclerosis survivor”--- lame. Something like that. I work all the time. I get told, that they want to promote me way out of the area. This was the only weekend I was supposed to have off. I don't have a time line for when they want me out of here. So all excuses, when I really want to see you, sound fucking lame. Ok? Lame. F U C K I N G L A M E. Tell me the truth instead. Hows about; “Scott, you're a fucking ugly fat bastard, and I hope you die. And I'm not coming to see you.” That would be understandable. Or, “You know what, I'm not sure I'm ready to be alone with you, knowing what you're feelings are about me, maybe its too soon for me.” Thats respectable. “Scott, were having a killer party at our house, and really its going to be rough for me to drive back and be here in time before people show up, is it OK to bounce this weekend?” Thats at least got a shred of decency dropped in a shot of the truth. I got, “Uhm, I have a soccer game, sorry!” Thats fucking lame. Like you didn't know about that before now? Lame, like you'd think I consider a last minute crap excuse, to be a good reason to back out on me? And then the reason is soccer? Fuck soccer. I hate stupid fucking spotted balls. I wish to hell soccer is proved to be the reason the Holocaust occurred; because Hitler tried to purge the earth of soccer, and the diversity fairies, hiding in jewish underclothes, smuggled their soccer balls into hidden rooms, then hid behind being jewish, or black, or gay, to protect soccer. Soccer is not an excuse. Not wanting to see me, is an excuse. This is a fucking rant. I understand that. Do you?
So I lost my weekend. So what. So people make up excuses not to see me, and hope that they can just have a chance with me some other time. Well, here is news.... I wont be here. I'll be standing behind a fucking gray desk, with a 1978 TV above my head, selling toilet seats to people in trailer parks at a shitty place that calls its self a hardware store, somewhere in America. Because, thats what I want to do. Because, thats what I dreamed about as a kid. I never go to pretend I could win the World Series, or that I could cure cancer, or that I could make 10 million dollars.... I dreamed of fat people, with herpes sores, asking me which toilet seat will hold 600 pounds of human fat, and still have a big enough opening for feces to splatter through. Thats why I went to college, burned all nighters, labored through arcane languages, and did massive social research projects; all to understand how best to sell fucking toilet seats to people with 3 teeth, clad in Nascar shirts, while they beat their child in admiration of my knowledge of the color differentiation of: Natural, Biscuit, Bone, Almond, Beige and Bisque.
SO..... The next time that I should be pulled away from my life's ultimate opus, of assisting the chapped, fecal inflamed ass to the soothing nature of an off-white receptacle; maybe we can think of why I fucking value my time with you. Maybe... Maybe we can sit and come to an understanding, that I hate my life. That I hate what I fucking do. I hate who I deal with. And I hate the times I have to work. Maybe, we can merge our thoughts, and understand that I want to see the people that matter to me, and I arrange these things so they can happen. Maybe I really had wanted to see you. Maybe, just maybe, I put up with a lot of fucking shit in my daily life, and I wanted to have some kind of a special day with you... because I never see you... and because I really do care about you. AND the first time in six months I had an open weekend to see you, I set my plans with you for that. But fuck it.
Once I found out you backed out on me, then everything else started going down hill. Then the scheduling crap. Then I find myself sitting at Menard's, at 5:15am, watching the sun come up over the trees... the first rays of light on my first weekend off in six months. And I try to remember who is honestly important to me, as I walk through the puddles in the lot, avoiding nails and screws that litter the parking spaces. I want to ask, Why is this fair?, but I know the answer. It isn't. But fuck it. No one else is here to care anyhow. I should have been at the zoo. I should have been smiling and laughing, and having ice cream. I should have just had a great weekend, that would make six months feel somewhat worth it. But instead, I look up at the TV to see that my punch was accepted, and I stand at my gray desk, waiting for the first moron to come in the door at 6:01am on my Saturday.
Maybe its all overblown. Maybe its melodramatic. Maybe I should focus on the three other people that I had plans to see that blew me off. Maybe I am an idiot. Maybe I don't care anymore. Maybe it doesn't make sense why I'm focusing on this. Maybe I want to believe that you're someone you're not, and that I'm someone I'll never be. Regardless... its Saturday night, and I know I'm going to work on my Sunday off as well in a few short hours. And I just feel like taking it out where I can at this point. Maybe I just shouldn't care. But I do. Maybe, I just want something to work out for once in my life. Like the weekend off that I didn't get; maybe thats just not meant to be.
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