In which I whine.
28 July 2004 at 10:13 am

I've been on the verge of tears for a month now. Everything makes me want to cry and it's ridiculous. When a certain person calls and barks orders at me, little tears spurt out. Tears streamed down my face during Queer Eye last night. That's fucking pathetic.

But Aaron was crying too, so I guess it's ok.

I guess it's misleading to use the term "verge of tears," as I have actually cried, but I always want to cry.

This is a very physical depression. It's like, a weight on my shoulders that results in severe backaches. It becomes an effort to walk, let alone get out of bed in the morning.

I hate my job. I hate when things that aren't a big deal, like this has to be HERE, NOW, and then I have to care about things that don't need to be cared about. I told a coworker, "You people freak out about things a lot," when I had intended to say "too much" because it's true. This was in regards to preparing coffee and water for a client. If I wanted to care about coffee and water, I would get a job at a diner. The client didn't drink any of the coffee or the water. It's all about appearances, though.

It's kind of amusing, as in it would be amusing if it weren't happening to me, when a superior tells me to do something very important. Their voice raises a pitch, and they talk very slowly, like instructing a six-year-old to use scissors. I play along, opening my eyes wide and nodding slowly, mouth slightly agape as though I have to inhale their verbal instructions to do them correctly. Then I complete the task in less than twenty minutes and they express their gratitude in such a severe way, it makes me feel like they expected me to mess up. Like when you're taking your first steps and no one really thinks that you'll do it, but then you do, and the shock and surprise and awe! Good job, Baby, now you're on your way to fulfilling your life's goals, but not before you suck up and take ridiculous orders from people for forty years.

And the things they have me do -- making phone cards, making labels for binders -- I mean, I wanted this job so badly so that I could have a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. The only thing that makes me feel accomplished is my online Scrabble score.

You know, it's not hard to do the things required of you when you're receptionist, but it is difficult to actually be a receptionist. It's mentally tasking, batting away boredom and people with no phone manners and agitated employers.

When my mom graduated college, she moved to Chicago and worked as a secretary for a year or two. Then, a male friend of hers told her that he was going to law school. He was an idiot, so my mom figured that if he could do it, so could she. Now she's a judge making six figures.

But it sucks that you have to start at the very bottom, no matter what you're doing.

They're telling my direct supervisor to go home because she is sick with a cold. I was sick with a cold for two days last week and am still phlegmy and losing my voice, but did anyone even mention that I should go home? No. No, they did not.

Yesterday, I went out to dinner with Katie and her sister. I found out that Katie's sister, who lives in my hometown of Redding, is dating someone my brother played basketball with in middle school. The boy is (or at least was) very nice, a good student, and a great basketball player, and he happens to be black. Katie's sister told me some stories about him -- how some people pulled a knife on him and threated to fuck him up because he was black and on the outskirts of town. How they were at a party that got busted by the cops and they made everyone, around 30 people, get down on their knees with their hands behind their backs, and of all the people at the party, they arrested only her boyfriend, the only black guy there. How he's been pulled over because the cops were looking for some gang members. If they had been looking for white gang members, would they pull over every white guy driving down the street? How, after a pro-diversity essay was published in the paper, several letters to the editor were written informing the city that blacks are not welcome there and if you want diversity, go somewhere else, like San Francisco.

This is where I grew up. Maybe that's why I'm so sad -- it's hard to be content when you grew up with assholes like that.

one year ago today: "would somebody please send out a memo to all members of the arachnid family and inform them that if they make their presence known, they will be destroyed?"

two years ago today: nothin.

three years ago today: nothin.


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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.