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All posts for the month September, 2012

explorations in employment

Published September 25, 2012 by 51percentawesome

silent service resumes.

Gritted teeth carrying heavy plates. Breasts, tanned, tall slim curvy sparkles. An old man leans in, speaks closely to me, surprising that neither one of us wishes we were 18 again. These girls look so young. I flirt with the dish boy, my pores screaming for sex.

Not so bad. Free sushi.

3 days later and I’m driving home with sore feet, from afternoon tea service. Bedroom floor hasn’t been vaccuumed, clothes sat in the machine all day. With another 10-4 shift tomorrow. How quickly the focus shifts, as if there was no edible snowball rolling down a hill. My manager is cute; I take him pumpkin pie (the vaguest reminder that I have somewhere more important to be). Easily distracted, an old manager said once.

My training is almost complete. Then what? Parts of me shy away and hide inside. Apparently I’m hard-working, so that’s not the problem.

The sun sets in a downward dog over the surflifesaving club. 30 days of sunrises completed, now I worship the purple horizon at the end of the day.

Sold.

Published September 15, 2012 by 51percentawesome

My soul leaves my body at half time. I’m not sure exactly when it happens, but behind the bar after lunch is my body without angela. A red wine, another jug of Carlton, a champagne in that strawberry; I am mute and barely responsive. Performing monotony. She doesn’t want to be here. To eat, I am offered an egg and I accept, then sit and stare at it. I leave and drive home at sunset and I won’t be coming back.

When will she learn? Can’t be sold.

Distractions

Published September 1, 2012 by 51percentawesome

Salad tonight. These days, ‘Saturday’ translates into ‘work’. I’m raking rubbish down a hill, methodically, concentrated. I find two dollars. Night cleaning is basically my dream job, if I was sleeping all day tomorrow. But I’m not. I’ve become a morning person, against my own will.

At this point I can’t really be held responsible for anything I say or do; I may as well be drunk.

Wednesday morning. Opportunity knocks, and I am awake to answer the door. I scrub animal fat in someone else’s kitchen (and by scrub I mean, blast with high pressure from a distance). Flecks of animal protein splatter my skin. I am offered tea, coffee, juice, repeatedly. The stainless steel room is filled with lilting accents. Peppermint tea deeply sweetened by honey. Nothing like inexplicable kindness to bring out unworthiness issues.

Friday lunch. The man holding the PowerPoint laser is nice. I like him. I just wish he wasn’t talking about convenience food. Whatthefuck business do I have serving microwave reheatable protein? None.

Anything could happen yeah, but nothing ever does. Another week has gone by, with my barely writing. Arms straining through the heaviness, descended because I keep forgetting what I am for. Slowly awakening back to myself, opening my grease splattered eyes to remember: I don’t have time for this. I make an amazing dish pig, but I am not long for this world.