When I’m at work, if I had the time (or were disinclined to do my job like practically every one I come across in life), I could write paragraphs and parables about the antics and shenanigans–shenantics??–that go one every day. But by the time I make it home to my lazy-boy and lethargic daughter, my selective memory has already started phasing out the bad parts, leaving me with nothing but a bad feeling and nothing to say. You wouldn’t know it from reading anything I post, but I don’t like to broadcast my angry-blackmanness. The cynicism that drives my sociopathic detachment from the human species is, believe it or not, somewhat of a curiosity that rages against what I consider to be my good nature.
That being said, I decided that I need some sort of rating system for my days in lieu of journaling about the absurd tedium of hospitality. Suffice it to say that if I’m not out of patience by “lunch” (because I don’t actually get one of those) then it’s a pretty successful day. If I make it through a shift without being threatened, insulted or ignored, then you should probably wake me from my fantasy because I fell asleep. I only gave myself 30 minutes for catharsis and I’m already three minutes over so I guess we’ll have to think of a rating system tomorrow.