No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. [Journal 8-5-17]

Plies – Becky.

Ah, idiots; you never fail to lessen the quality of my life. So I wake up today, to a text from my boss, complaining about my speed at work last night. As a prep cook, I have a list to complete, waiting for me at the start of every day. Well, we were so busy yesterday that I could only start working on that list, after six hours into my shift; even then, I was so bogged down with backlog that I couldn’t really get to it.

The way my job works is: I’m officially a prep cook, but really, I’m the “Oh, you’re a fuckup? Let me fix that.” Basically, I help everyone. Dishpit need help? I help. The line need an endless supply of backups/dishes run to them? I help. Random shit happening in the kitchen? I help. The morning prep/line fail to do their jobs? I help.

Then there’s my actual list. Then the dessert orders, which are on me to assemble, aswellas prepare some components for – such as whipped cream, frosting, dressing, etc; which all the other prep seem to consistently forget to do. Amusingly, no one but me actually puts those various components out on the counter, in ice, so that we don’t have to run all over the kitchen to get them – for every fucking order.

Oh right, and when these idiots on the line want something, they’re rarely considerate enough to yell over the fucking music blaring in my face. They’re getting better at yelling, but they still don’t really understand the concept. Which is fucking baffling to me, like the other preps not icing those dessert components. Honestly, how the fuck are these people even alive? How the fuck am I to take my life seriously, with this kind of deep stupidity surrounding me at all times?

Anyway, on friday night, we were so busy, and everyone on the line constantly wanted backups, so I was hauling ass. When I got them something, it was always the same: “thank you so much,” “gracias senor,” “you’re the best.” But as soon as it slows down, I’m getting questioned about my speed. Oh, and I buried the lead: there’s usually TWO guys in my position on Friday, not JUST ME. Fucking. Morons.

So, why are these idiots harassing me? Why does poop stint? Because they’re idiots. But, to be more accurate: I think the two jackasses who cried are somewhat in charge of me, and rather than simply accept that we were busy, that some idiot fucked up the scheduling, that they’re human garbage, they took it out on me.

Why do this instead of just act like mature adults, accept reality, and find a solution? Because they’re idiots. One was the American sous [Blackass], whom I think is an ex-con. I think all of the other American cooks are ex-cons. The dishwasher is more autistic than otherwise – whom the kitchen staff regularly argue with and make fun of. Super fucking classy. All the Mexicans are probably illegal, which is cool with me, but extremely telling of the Chef’s morals when combined with other factors. What I’m trying to say is: it’s an overall unhealthy social situation.

And, at the head of this group, is the Chef. He’s on salary; I’ve seen him there maybe three times, for five minutes at a time; maybe he comes earlier in the day, but I seriously doubt it, given the morning prep’s rampant incompetence. He may be an ex-con himself; not that it guarantees he’s a dirtbag, but it’s certainly not a good sign.

Anyway, this dumbfuck texts me in the morning, saying that he’s not angry, but they haven’t had issues with prep not finishing their lists before, and he might need to move me into the dishpit if I can’t speed up. I know it wasn’t within the realm of possibility for anyone to have finished that list that night, so I call his bluff, saying that I can’t go faster, and it’s probably best to just put me in the pit.

“Well I would like to see you be a stronger roundsmen. We can work some hours in both areas. But I would like to see you developing into more of a roundsmen than dish.” What a fucking dipshit. I assume bluster and threat is his M.O., as a large portion of the kitchen staff has a tendency to just complain and shift blame. Some of the guys are great, but that childish behavior is definitely the kitchen’s bedrock.

So, again, I figured that on Friday night, when the two guys whom are somewhat responsible for me figured out my list was barely started, they instinctively shifted blame rather than just fixing the fucking problem. They cried to Chef, Chef cried to me, I cried to you.

I was ready to quit tonight, without giving notice, as my suicidal impulses surged due to this new misfortune – getting a shit job incombination with having to move. [For those whom are new to my pathetic life: I’ve been unlucky for awhile, don’t see much possibility for change, and it’s getting to me.] But, bitch that I am, I got my paycheck and those urges dramatically diminished. Not because I’m gonna run out and buy happiness, but because that money means security.

Ya, so I gotta deal with druggies, drunks, ex-cons, pathologic liars, and fucking servers. But I can start saving again. I can get prepared for the next cock that life will surely ram straight up my asshole. Still, I’m gonna start looking for a new job when I can find some spare fucking energy. If Chef fucks with me again, I’m gonna politely inform him that I can’t work five days anymore – due to “family issues.” I’ll spend the extra time finding work.

If you fucking morons would just do right, you wouldn’t have to spend all your goddamned time cleaning up your own messes. Stupid. Oh right, I forgot to mention that while I only ever stop working to piss, smoke one cigarette per eight hour shift, and spend five fucking minutes eating the daily meal that is compulsorily removed from my check, those cunt who gave me shit sit around playing with their fucking phones and chatting – instead of getting their own fucking backups. And I assume the morning shift just fucks around, like most kitchen morning shifts: that’s certainly evident in the amount of backups I’m immediately bogged down by at the start of the day.

And Ex-Landlord is dicking around with getting me my deposit back. Flaky little rich-bitch. Could have easily slipped a fucking check into my mailbox; fucker knows exactly where I live, and it’s on the way. What did I do to deserve this life? But ya, might kill myself if life just keeps going downhill; I’m not depressed, I’m just sick of the same old shit, occurring for no justifiable reason.

And all I can do is look stupid and be submissive, while doing everything for these animals. What a fucking treat life is. Nwe rental’s still tolerable, but I’m worried that once I shift jobs and have to cook regularly, it’ll piss Landlordess off. Because that’s reasonable.

One sane person. All I want is one sane person. One. There are seven billion of you twats to keep each other company. I just want one sane person. Fuck my life.

Journal Hub



~ by Louis Naughtic on August 6, 2017.

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