Work, or How the Government Steals My Money

To be completely honest, my job sucks. I work as a cashier at a local, shitty store. It's a fruit market, of course. What we sell? Well, obviously, fruit, but we also carry an array of other bizarre items. What does this bring in? An array of customers. And what does that mean? They're all fucking weird.

Weird customers? Golly galoshes, Ripley, that must be exciting!!

Frankly, it isn't. I've been yelled at in Russian, Japanese, Chinese, Arabic, Hindi, et cetera. For doing my god damned job. Is there something morally wrong with being a cashier that I should know about? Did they see me smoking outside and are worried about my health? Did I accidentally run a puppy over on my way to work? (If I did, I don't remember.) But honestly, why? It is rarely ever the cashier's fault. Really, it isn't. We just fucking beep things across glass all day.

Then, besides the weird customers, there are the overly emotional ones that need to tell you about how their lives are terrible. When I ask, "Hey there! How're you doing today?" with a fake smile plastered to my face, I really mean, "Sup, throw your shit on the belt, tell me you're fine and get out real quick-like." I don't want you to bitch about how your mother, sister, or cat is in the hospital. Or how much it sucks to be old.

I don't care, for the most part. Tough shit, there's worse things in life.

Next time, let's explore empathy, or Ripley's lack thereof.