Tomorrow I could be fired and whether I am or not depends on the choice of someone who fucking despises me.

While I gave into the click-bait, it is still a true statement. Due to a certain incident (40% of which is actually my fault) a cataclysmic shit-storm has hailed down on the establishment with the only reason me knowing of it coming from other part-timers (‘You’re in trouuuuuuubbbble.’). Tomorrow I’l see my supervisor and this’ll either hit the fan or avoid the blades but none the less cut off a limb. With the last few days being the equivalent of a trek through the circles of Hell this isn’t the torpedo into my backyard I expected it to be. I was strangely serene as I restocked the ice-creams and pondered my job and its possible ending. I was Jesus being marched to the cross and I had ten cornettos to comfort me. At that moment life wasn’t as bad as it should’ve been and that is the stark representation of how much I don’t give a shit about my dead-end job. If anything I dread my own soppy breakdown than the termination of a steady income; whenever I disappoint someone it hits me hard.

It’s almost disappointing to consider I won’t be terminated. Never will I be able to stalk out after being being fired for something that was ultimately resolved, knocking every piece of confectionery off the shelves as I go. The week I have off before I start job searching will be spent driving to Byron Bay with three bottles of vodka in the passenger seat. And when I returned adequately fucked (hopefully not just drunkenly so) I have an emergency list of places to apply to work in which I’l wear my biggest smile and sell my skills like they’re liquid gold. I’d start another job and get another shot at that mythical part-time job that actually brings me satisfaction and not the plague. Again I’d spin the wheel of chance and with that perhaps get a uniform that actually fits.

However you can’t have a cookie without chocolate chips; my anxiety will always be attached to any bad situation I face and now I feel it as it tries to chip away at this scenario (ohmygodit’sterribleyoumadeabadohgoodnessyou’regoingtodiealoneandhungryandsadIT’SALLYOURFAULTEVENTHOUGHITISN’T) and I, undisturbed at everything but the potential yelling and shouting, kick it away and continue to dance bare chested on the table with my Cup-a-soup. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck y’all who’d fire me over something I would’ve tried to right if I’d known it actually happened because I’m a decent and fair individual. I’ll take my cake and eat three monstrous mouthfuls before shoving it up your ass.