It’s been a week since I turned 29. One miserable, aching week. Every day I wake up, pretend that I’m even treading water (as opposed to slowly sinking), and go to work in an abattoir of American capitalism. There is little hope, less future.
It is before 7 am and snow is falling. I will risk my life to get to work this morning. No one will care that this is the case and if I crash they will only wonder why I am late.
I will get to work and hear one of my three managers loudly and proudly proclaim that “this tissue won’t protect me from getting sick” despite having the utility of the mask explained to him several times. He is a shithead and I hope he dies of COVID for his arrogance.
I will make it to the afternoon and I will have an ache somewhere in my right knee, perhaps even my left if I should be so lucky. I will duck and dodge dozens of customers. I hate customers.
They will come to the grocery store, and they will act like we are vending machines–liable to be kicked when an improper product (or no product at all) comes out of the coils. They will never consider that many of us live in constant anxiety, having reframed any and all physical proximity (let alone touch) as a viral transmission risk. They will get annoyed at us for our rudeness and they will buy their bread and leave.
I will go out for my second smoke break and I will consider hitting my THC pen. I will refrain from doing so because, even considering all the above, it still bothers me when I don’t do my job well. I will never make a living wage for doing this job well.
I will go back inside, try to clean my area for the next person, and I will clock out. I will likely clock out ten minutes early because I want to leave more than I want to be paid for 10 minutes of my time.
I will wake up the next morning and do it all again. Until one day, I won’t. Hopefully that’ll be because of a better job, with better pay and regular weekends and actual benefits. At this point, it looks nearly as likely that I’ll just kill myself.
Colorado Public Radio could have solved this by just giving me a fucking job in Feb. 2019. If I kill myself, blame them.