Living Without Lighting
A Rancid Day in Retail
While the concept of the Omen seems to have dissipated in today's modern society, I assure you, it has not. The same fear that drove early colonialists away from sacred Native American grounds and convinced your grandparents to steer clear from black cats and ladders does not stem from the subject matter itself, but rather the uncertainty and chaos associated with it. This survival mechanism of perceived irrationality still lies within us today, but let me assure you that it should not be ignored when it comes to working the weekend shift in retail. Whether it be Saturday or Sunday, four-hour or eight, a shift on the weekends is a guarantee for chaos, drama, and overall bad luck.
Today (or yesterday, I'm always uploading my entries past midnight) proved to be no different. I came condemningly close to being labelled as a racist, and I had the displeasure of crossing paths with someone who've I've spent the better part of the past seven years actively trying to avoid.
A guy came in today, and upon leaving the store, he had a full bottle of juice in his hand and he walked right past the checkout counter to the front door. I've stated in the past that I usually don't care too much about people stealing, but when it's right in front of my eyes I kind of have to do something for the sake of my job. I asked him to pay for the item, and when he said he did I didn't believe him until he led me to a register in the back of the store where he said he purchased it. This register is NEVER used for general merchandise, and is meant for furniture purposes only. Either way, after my manager confirmed that he did in fact pay for it (I guess he was a delivery guy) I apologized and he left the store. Of course, leave it to some Karen to approach me and tell me how racist it was due to his complexion. "You know how that looks, right?" she sneered, examining my face for signs of vulnerability in this ad hoc social trial. As much as I resent myself for it, sometimes I have to be thankful for my social anxiety, because my profuse apologizing seemed to be the only thing keeping her from suspecting me of being some sort of goose-stepping supremacist. At the end of it all she still asked for my name (I don't wear my name tag, and if you've read my past entries you can probably piece together why) and I gave it to her. I think she understood, but it's baffling to think how quickly these cases become about them rather than the actual people involved. At the end of the day it's the delivery man that I owe an apology to, not you lady.
Secondly, this guy who at one point used to be my best friend, but soon fell out of my favor through his clingy behavior and embarrassing mannerisms just so happened to drop by. I always feel bad about ditching him because I know deep down he's a great guy, but in this case I did my best to sneak to the warehouse for my break, but without success. We "bumped" into each other, and after some awkward conversation we exchanged phone numbers. Much to my fears, later tonight I got a call from whom I could only assume to be him. I didn't pick up.
As I write out more about how I "feel" rather than my simple day-to-day life this diary becomes more anxiety-inducing yet engaging at the same time. If it weren't for the internet, what would my emotional legacy be? Some dusty old notebooks left to deteriorate in a rat-filled attic long after I've croaked? They'd only provide for some brief entertainment, and after their reading my future family would giggle to themselves, "wow, what a jackass Uncle ___ was!", and they'd put them away in some far corner of their house for god knows how long, only for my thoughts and feelings to fade away in the ether. You gotta DARE to express yourself, you know what I mean? Even if it instills the fact that sometime in the far future my identity could be blown. You've gotta feel in the moment, baby.
Either way, it's 3am and I'm simply too tired to write anymore. I was going to babble on about Premiere, but I think it can wait for another time. Until then...