I'm pretty sure my job is slowly killing me.
No, not the porn thing. I'm still at the point where it's making me metric fucktons of cash and I still enjoy it. No, as it turns out the job that society deems 'proper' is actively driving me absolutely positively fucknuts.
Here's the deal: My job is to serve ribs and chicken to people. That's it. That's all we have at the restaurant I work at: Ribs and chicken. Not exactly a life or death decision here. The money is good, but that's really only to offset the fact that the decor makes T.G.I.Friday's look like The Cordon Fucking Bleu, and the music seems to be picked exclusively from that part of the 80's that time wishes it could forget but can't.
The clientele isn't any better. In the words of Rebecca from Ghost World, "Some people are okay, mostly I just feel like poisoning everybody." Okay, so granted I'm a natural misanthropist, so the fact that I hate people probably shouldn't come as much of a shock. But just to show you the kind of assholes I have to deal with, here's a quick rundown of some:
Groups who come in five minutes after closing, sit around doing jackshit, and don't bother leaving for a good hour.
Parents who have zero control over their screaming, obnoxious, crying, loud-mouthed kids. On the plus side, it convinced me that I really need to get that vasectomy.
Old people who come in and complain that $10 for a full restaurant meal is expensive. Sorry if your sarsaparilla cost you nickel back in 1901, but much like your waist line, prices are subject to inflation.
Giant ass groups who come in, make a huge mess, go through my personal belongings, then leave me with a giant fucking mess to clean.
Babies. Hoooooooo God do I ever hate babies. You know why they're cute? To make up for the fact that all they do is eat, shit, scream, cry, puke and throw shit around. I absolutely defy you to find anything redeeming about that. Hell, if there was a committee to round up everyone under the age of eighteen and ship them off to an island until they come of age, you better fucking believe I'd be President, V.P., treasurer and secretary.
Point is, the job that people think is good for me and keeps me grounded is making me go staunchly in favour of Cocoa Puffs. Thankfully I can rest easy with the knowledge that I'll be out of here in about three weeks.