Ending a 6-Year Sentence at a Shitty Job

Illness aids and abets the writing process


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I suspect it’s like quitting any other bad habit like smoking or drinking, neither of which I’ve done yet. It may be comparable to escaping from a bad relationship. It’s not quite like beating a death sentence. I’m not free to retire. I haven’t won the lottery. But there’s pride in putting away foolish, humiliating things forever: my mustard bottle; my tomato slicer; my 5 shirts (one black, one yellow, one maroon, one evergreen, one olive) all bearing the same corporate logo that made me feel like such a tool. No more little girls in communion dresses screaming “I said mustard!” No more need for deviant fantasies of squirting “Fuk U” on said dress where one day her haughty breasts will be. No more rich high school kids yelling, “hurry up!” (as my back hurts) before baiting me with a non sequiter like, “I’ll never have to work--my dad said so” with a smug look. No more boss who blows into the store for five minutes a day to count his money then threatens to take free meals away for some mysterious, never articulated reason. No more sickening parmesan odor infecting my clothes, my bag, my soul. No more Nazifarian co-worker making me miserable every goddamn second he’s on shift with hourly outbursts of “I hate this job!” or “Fuck this . . . fuck this . . .”--all within earshot of the customers who then cast their ignorant derisive looks at me. It feels good to let these things go forever. Damn good. This burden is lifted. May the next be a little lighter. Thankyou, God. Fuck you, Sandwichland.