Shining Raichu
Expect me like you expect Jesus.
- 8,959
- Posts
- 13
- Years
- Age 33
- Australia
- Seen Nov 20, 2023
Tell me, readers, have you ever been in a relationship where you become so incredibly sick of the other person that every little thing they do begins to annoy you beyond belief? All the magic is gone, and those things that you once found cute or charming now make your skin crawl? Ever been in that situation where you are with them, a steel smile plastered to your face while inside "I hate you, I hate you, I ******* hate you, I'm gonna kill you in your sleep" plays on a loop in your mind?
Well I haven't, but I now know exactly what it feels like. I know you've all wondered why it's been so long since I last made a blog, ("No, we haven't! Our lives don't revolve around your blog!" you all collectively shout, but the noise is drowned out by a combination of my inner-ear problems and the deafening sound of my own self-importance) and now you get the answer you have been long awaiting. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to work ten days in a row.
Let me preface this by saying that I do love my job. I enjoy what I do, I generally like my customers and they all love me (and who wouldn't? I'm lovely). However at around the sixth consecutive day, your mood begins to go south, and things that didn't previously seem like such a big deal begin to play a dangerous game of tetherball with your patience and nerves. At around the eighth day, that steel smile begins to falter, and you develop an eye twitch that is triggered by the conflict between your fraying temper and your desire to keep your job. Finally, on the tenth day, the only option left open to you is bursting into hysterical laughter because they've finally broken you and there isn't one little thing you can do about it.
The only thing that kept me sane through this whole experience was the piece of receipt paper I'm staring at as I type, where I've written down every annoyance that came to my mind so that when it was finally over - when I finally got to this day - I could sit here and write an open letter to that bunch of alcoholic mouth-breathers and tell them exactly what my tired mind thought of them in that dark, dark time. Fasten your seatbelts, kids, you're in for a rant:
Readers, the moral here is this: never work more than six days in a row. No amount of money is worth your mental health.
Well I haven't, but I now know exactly what it feels like. I know you've all wondered why it's been so long since I last made a blog, ("No, we haven't! Our lives don't revolve around your blog!" you all collectively shout, but the noise is drowned out by a combination of my inner-ear problems and the deafening sound of my own self-importance) and now you get the answer you have been long awaiting. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to work ten days in a row.
Let me preface this by saying that I do love my job. I enjoy what I do, I generally like my customers and they all love me (and who wouldn't? I'm lovely). However at around the sixth consecutive day, your mood begins to go south, and things that didn't previously seem like such a big deal begin to play a dangerous game of tetherball with your patience and nerves. At around the eighth day, that steel smile begins to falter, and you develop an eye twitch that is triggered by the conflict between your fraying temper and your desire to keep your job. Finally, on the tenth day, the only option left open to you is bursting into hysterical laughter because they've finally broken you and there isn't one little thing you can do about it.
The only thing that kept me sane through this whole experience was the piece of receipt paper I'm staring at as I type, where I've written down every annoyance that came to my mind so that when it was finally over - when I finally got to this day - I could sit here and write an open letter to that bunch of alcoholic mouth-breathers and tell them exactly what my tired mind thought of them in that dark, dark time. Fasten your seatbelts, kids, you're in for a rant:
-- To every second male customer that walks through the door: Do you see this sign? D-do you see it? This sign - yeah, this big red one right above the door you're about to walk through. Look, right up there, right above your head. Do you see it? It looks a little something like this:
Now, I'm not sure if you were aware of this, but Liquorland is a store. Pro tip: when you enter a store and intend to buy things, you will need your wallet. Therefore, walking up to the counter, putting your purchases down and then saying "Hold on, I just have to get my wallet out of the car" is not acceptable, and makes me want to punch you in the head.
-- To those of you who come in every single day to buy just one bottle of beer, I have a wonderful suggestion for you: buy a whole goddamn carton. This has the dual benefit of being a lot cheaper for you and meaning that I will not have to see your toothless, tobacco-raped mouth and reflective yellow government-worker vest for a glorious twenty-four days. This way, everybody wins.
-- If you come in within half an hour of closing time, I automatically hate you. If you come in within five minutes of closing time, I automatically hate you even more. But if you come in right as we're about to close the doors and expect us to stay open for you while you take your sweet time deciding what you want, then please know that the surveillance cameras are all that is stopping me from picking up a duplicate of the bottle of whiskey you are holding and clubbing you to death with it.
-- To the jokers among you: rest assured, I have heard that one before. Most specifically, when I ask you if you'd like your receipt and you reply "No, I can't claim that back on tax!" before having a self-satisfied chuckle and expecting me to join you, please know that my well-rehearsed laughter lasts only until you're out the doors, at which point it dies flat and is accompanied by an eye-roll so spectacular that it makes my co-workers wonder whether I'm having an orgasm. You see, even if I hadn't heard it around three hundred times before, it would not be funny. Find a new joke, or at the very least keep that one to yourself.
-- Another one for the men. Please refrain from calling me any of the following: Mate, Champ, Boss, Tiger or Ace. I am your server at Liquorland, and that is all. You are not my Daddy. I do not need you to pump up my self-esteem like I'm ten years old and have just scored for the opposite team in my first little-league football game. However, if it comes with an ice-cream, you can call me anything you like.
-- When I greet you with "Hi, how are you?" never ever reciprocate by saying "Good, how's yourself?" This is not only grammatically incorrect, but blatantly so, and I hold it up there with people saying "youse" when addressing multiple people and not knowing the difference between there, their and they're.
-- Nobody needs six cold bottles of wine immediately. Take one or two and get the rest off the shelves, you inconsiderate morons.
-- If you are sick, or have brought a child who is sick, stand a safe distance from the counter while I process your transaction and make sure you pay by card - I do not want to handle your germ-infected cash. Correspondingly, do not ask for my assistance on the shop floor. This requires me to get closer to you than I am comfortable with – I do not deal well with contagiously sick people. Know that if I could quarantine you, I would.
-- Finally, I am not your therapist. Do not come in to buy alcohol and tell me that your parent, sibling, friend or pet recently died. It's not that I don't care or sympathise, but it makes it incredibly awkward because we are strangers and I quite simply have no idea what to say. No matter whether I try to awkwardly breeze through your transaction or offer over-compensatory condolences, I still come off sounding like a jackass.
Now, I'm not sure if you were aware of this, but Liquorland is a store. Pro tip: when you enter a store and intend to buy things, you will need your wallet. Therefore, walking up to the counter, putting your purchases down and then saying "Hold on, I just have to get my wallet out of the car" is not acceptable, and makes me want to punch you in the head.
-- To those of you who come in every single day to buy just one bottle of beer, I have a wonderful suggestion for you: buy a whole goddamn carton. This has the dual benefit of being a lot cheaper for you and meaning that I will not have to see your toothless, tobacco-raped mouth and reflective yellow government-worker vest for a glorious twenty-four days. This way, everybody wins.
-- If you come in within half an hour of closing time, I automatically hate you. If you come in within five minutes of closing time, I automatically hate you even more. But if you come in right as we're about to close the doors and expect us to stay open for you while you take your sweet time deciding what you want, then please know that the surveillance cameras are all that is stopping me from picking up a duplicate of the bottle of whiskey you are holding and clubbing you to death with it.
-- To the jokers among you: rest assured, I have heard that one before. Most specifically, when I ask you if you'd like your receipt and you reply "No, I can't claim that back on tax!" before having a self-satisfied chuckle and expecting me to join you, please know that my well-rehearsed laughter lasts only until you're out the doors, at which point it dies flat and is accompanied by an eye-roll so spectacular that it makes my co-workers wonder whether I'm having an orgasm. You see, even if I hadn't heard it around three hundred times before, it would not be funny. Find a new joke, or at the very least keep that one to yourself.
-- Another one for the men. Please refrain from calling me any of the following: Mate, Champ, Boss, Tiger or Ace. I am your server at Liquorland, and that is all. You are not my Daddy. I do not need you to pump up my self-esteem like I'm ten years old and have just scored for the opposite team in my first little-league football game. However, if it comes with an ice-cream, you can call me anything you like.
-- When I greet you with "Hi, how are you?" never ever reciprocate by saying "Good, how's yourself?" This is not only grammatically incorrect, but blatantly so, and I hold it up there with people saying "youse" when addressing multiple people and not knowing the difference between there, their and they're.
-- Nobody needs six cold bottles of wine immediately. Take one or two and get the rest off the shelves, you inconsiderate morons.
-- If you are sick, or have brought a child who is sick, stand a safe distance from the counter while I process your transaction and make sure you pay by card - I do not want to handle your germ-infected cash. Correspondingly, do not ask for my assistance on the shop floor. This requires me to get closer to you than I am comfortable with – I do not deal well with contagiously sick people. Know that if I could quarantine you, I would.
-- Finally, I am not your therapist. Do not come in to buy alcohol and tell me that your parent, sibling, friend or pet recently died. It's not that I don't care or sympathise, but it makes it incredibly awkward because we are strangers and I quite simply have no idea what to say. No matter whether I try to awkwardly breeze through your transaction or offer over-compensatory condolences, I still come off sounding like a jackass.
Readers, the moral here is this: never work more than six days in a row. No amount of money is worth your mental health.
