I started a second job. The reasons why really don’t matter. If I’ve learned anything about blogging it’s come from Joannadandy. If you don’t know her and have never read her blog, do yourself a favor, find her on my myspace page and go have you a laugh. myspace.com/i00fires. She’s the redhead with the big head and little teeth on my friends. Anyway, from her I’ve learned that a good blog has to have a mixture of self deprecation, pain, hopefully someone getting hurt, some nudity or the possibility of nudity and some bodily function. I think I’ve got all of that in here.
Target reminds me of a cross between fight club and a place where they let retards and convicts interact with society. Now I don’t mean retarded people. I would rather work with retarded people. I mean retards, you know, people who think that saying, “I’ve worked here on the night shift for two years” qualifies them in some way. No, no, no retard. This makes further you look like an ass to me. Its like fight club because, well “Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't.”
The best part of my night is watching people. Before the store closes I’m on the floor stocking. I listen to the most inane conversations about nothing that seem like something but really aren’t. The best of those are those people who look like their talking to themselves but have a Bluetooth device lodged in their ears buzzing their days drivel into the ether while walking down the Domestics aisle. I want to hit them in the side of the head with my recently organized, one of a kind blown glass pitchers. It would really be a service to society.
Then there are the attention starved wanna-be cougars who once oozed sex when they walked. Now they just ooze old make up, day old booze and something that smells faintly of moth balls while they try to get the 16 year old pimple faced teenagers to notice their pushed up old leathered milk sacks.
My night is mostly spent trying to figure out if my team lead has a nice ass or whether that is sleep deprivation talking. Cuz when I’m rested it looks like a giggly mound of flesh replete with potholes and craters from some far off war lost to that last piece of cheesecake. But some nights the only thought that keeps me awake is bending her over the my little pony display in the toy section and making her neigh. Then there is this other team lead who looks like she’s twelve. She’s my favorite victim. I make little girl pelvis cracking/clown costume jokes at her the whole night. When she gets rowdy I ask her if its past her curfew and tell her to be a good girl if she wants another lollypop. Sometimes when she’s super good I promise to give her a gold star and let her stay up an extra half hour to watch David Letterman’s monologue. Basically when I look in her general direction I feel a contrary sense of both attraction and shame. If I keep working there I’m going to have to grow a fumanchu, get a van with no windows and stock up on duct tape and candy corn.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love the word Fuck more than I like the word Dominick and I really really like the word Dominick. It was 11 o’clock and the store was closing. I dropped an F bomb and this guy walks up to me, gets right in my face and goes on this tirade about watching my mouth. I apologize and then he continues. I stop him, look down my nose at him and explain that I had apologized and that it was in his best interests to accept my apology and move on. He puffs out his chest and asks me if we have a problem. I stifle both my laughter and the desire to chop him in the neck, stand over his body and take a dump on his chest, tell him no there is no problem and get back to putting the Dora the Explorer puzzles in their proper place.
Basically what I’ve affirmed working here is that everyone gets into binds that they have to get themselves out of. Or at least the majority of us do. We all struggle to some extent. Writing this I feel like it’s the end of the sitcom where I’m telling you the moral. There really is no moral. I work with fucked up retards who think that when they get promoted and start working 60 hour weeks to make that 40k a year all of their problems will be solved when really they’ll still be retards with nicer cars and more shit that they don’t need.