Making The Best Of
Turning down jobs is a speciality of mine. I always get so excited in the days beforehand, but twenty-four hours, give or take, before I am due to be at forefront of customer service and taking myself and my shitty hospitality occupation so seriously, I see the weeks before me as a physical thing, this palpable mess. And it looks so hideous, how could you blame me?
My father who fought so hard to keep his hair when he was just another healthy person (his young family, his business, taking me out for breakfast and letting my sadness affect him on occasion) now has the head of a newborn. That’s what it reminds me off. He has this strange down of hair that just screams fragility at me as my little brothers try to give me electrostatic shocks by rubbing their feet on the linoleum floors. His eyes are sparse and pink-rimmed and where his brows were he remains almost expressionless. Every time I pause on my way out of the hospital and every time I notice how angry everybody outside seems, the bus drivers break my heart and the passersby just won’t let me find faith in the trampolines outside of suburban houses or the ignorant children that play on them.
I found out what happened to my unhappiness, though. It grew fingers with nails and started calling itself temper instead. I have one, now. My heart might never get above 60 beats per minute but I’m more than happy to tell you how sick to death I am of your shit anyway.
I am more sick to death of my own shit though, naturally.