I pace around the tiny area of my cash register. Feeling like a tiger in a too-small cage with electric shock walls… except significantly less awesome than that. But really it makes me feel claustrophobic and trapped. How are you all just standing still at your stations? waiting for the next customer? Aren’t you exploding inside with unspent desire and caged creativity? Can’t you feel a tiny bit of your soul being sold at this low price? I pace, two or three feet in each direction. Snap my fingers and try to dig my nails underneath each other to make them hurt.  (I cut them short short short to stop myself). Hoping no one will send a customer to me because I don’t want to have to smile again. I don’t want to have the exact same conversation I have had with a hundred other people already today. “I hate doing this kind of job.” I tell them. “You won’t have to forever. It’s not your real life.” My brother tells me. “I know you do. I wish you didn’t have to. You won’t have to for long.” My S.O tells me. I know it is true, and they are right. You support me most of the time, really. It’s the least I can do to do whatever I have to during the other times. It is temporary and transient but I cannot help feeling worn by it nonetheless. I honestly don’t understand how people can spend their whole lives in such a fashion without killing themselves. 


One thought on “

  1. Rebeka Renae says:

    They are already long dead.

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