Same Shit, Different Day. [Journal 8-12-17]

Earth, Wind, And Fire – Reasons.

Hm. I didn’t notice the blog has been running a year now. Probably a little over – I’m just going by the first journal entry, which I think came after other sections. Still single – obviously. Winter’s coming though, and that’s my preferred season.

I’m not up to much. I’ve got an interview lined up at a job I want. It’s just labor at a thrift store, but I love the places, and it seems suited to my needs: I’d be in a physically demanding position which simultaneously has lax pacing; the job lacks anything resembling glory, so my coworkers shouldn’t be jostling for position; all the managers are female, so they’re far less likely to force pissing contests on me – which they would lose, then get cunty about it, like everyone else stupid enough to try.

Basically, it seems like a place that would welcome my social influence, and suit my preferred work-style. Whether or not they hire me, of course, is up in the air. Scheduling my interview a week in advance doesn’t seem like a good sign, but I talked to all four of the managers that I’m aware of, over repeated visits, while asking about their available positions, and they seemed receptive. Who knows. Can always find another job.

The downside of the switch is a change in schedule, aswellas a drop in current, and most likely future, pay. My current schedule works out pretty perfectly for avoiding my housemates; they’re not bad, but they’re still normal. I’d probably have to replace a manager to get a noticeable raise at the new job, whereas I’m making one-to-two dollars over minimum wage right now, and could easily get another buck or two if I took a spot on the line.

But so fucking what? I’d need allot more than that to afford living alone, and still being able to save, in fucking Seattle. At this point, unless I make.. another six bucks an hour, it doesn’t really fucking matter how much I make: the only thing I’d want to buy with extra income is peace and quiet. An acceptable one-bedroom apartment, in a safe and quiet neighborhood, runs 1,500+ a month here, all told. In a shitty neighborhood, I might be able to pull off 1,200, if I’m really lucky.

So, I could stay at my current job, deal with superiors that are cunts half the time, and certainly incompetent all of the time – which forces me to work harder. All to eventually get on the line/sous position, and maybe get up to eighteen or nineteen an hour after a couple fucking years? All while dealing with their rampaging insecurity, which will no doubt continue to be expressed in me dealing with cunty bullshit – and likely in sabotage. Fuck that. Time to move on.

And I’m not in a rush to save: there’s nothing for me to really do with the money, aside from pay off my college debt, which isn’t a pressing matter. So, basically, it’s a matter of “why bother?” Even if I paid off my debt, I’d still have nothing to do with the money. Buy a house, I suppose? I’ve never actually looked into the process. I should. Still, at my pay-grade, I imagine that would take for fucking ever, despite me near-compulsive saving. In any case, I just don’t spend money. Maybe if I had a bunch extra, I’d eat out/buy expensive ingredients?

As for how work’s going now: same shit. American sous has stopped blaming me for shit, having figured out that I’m both fast and extremely effective – and that he can’t deny it. Fucking moron. Still gets in my god damned way with stupid ass ideas. Fucking moron screwed with my dessert-components setup for whatever reason, which makes more work for me. But what am I gonna do, point out to an idiot that they’re an idiot? That always goes well.

Rest of the guys are happy about me, since I get their shit quick, or even before they ask – and in top condition. I actually had to train a guy today, who was hired a week before me, but was previously on the line. I assume he’s a pillhead, based on the constant dilation of his pupils, and ridiculously slow speed. I know he’s a stoner and an ex-con. Mother fucker cannot last in my position, that’s for certain; and I’ve only heard complaints about him from the guys on the line.

American sous was not pleased with me training someone, that’s for sure. He thinks he keeps his thoughts close, but fucker’s pretty transparent. Fucking morons. Their lives, and everyone else’s, would be so much better if they were forcibly restricted to positions they can responsibly handle. But hell, poor bastard’s been working there for years, and is decently suited to it; he just had the terrible luck of a random genius showing up. If he wasn’t an idiot, he’d know I have no intention of fucking anyone over, and can only improve his life due to my morals.

Anyway, my body’s adapting to the workload, so I’m enjoying it now: the old “let’s fuck shit up” spirit returns. Servers have mostly learned to stay the fuck out of my way, and stop with the attempts to manipulate/charm me. Chef likes me. Funny story: I happened to be in the area on my day off, and needing to waste some time. So I went into the kitchen through the backdoor, to grab a nut off the slicer, so I could buy replacement wingnuts – I warned no one that I was coming. Chef was right at the backdoor as I walk in.

He was caught off-guard, but had the presence of mind to try playing-off his surprise. I gave him a “Hey man,” while walking right past him, going straight to the slicer, and grabbing the nut. He asked what I was up to, faux cool-like; told him I was getting wingnuts, since the normal nuts were a “pain in my ass,” and that I’d be right back. The nuts are infact a pain in my ass.

I walk a few blocks to the hardware store, get the wingnuts, go back. I walk in the backdoor with a “Fuck yeah!” that I made sure he could hear – because the attached song was playing. While switching out the nuts, I sang with the song. He somewhat nervously came over, asked if they fit; I said they did.

Then he asked the cost, obviously about to offer to reimburse me. I gave a surprised/disgusted look, and I said “Two bucks.” Dude was still off-balance with the whole situation, so he walked away. A moment later, he came back over, asked if I got them at the nearby hardware store, to which I replied in the affirmative. He, very amusingly, had an expression of self-chiding. Then I left, with a “See ya later.”

I like the guy, really do. A bit of a bitch though. Funny, since he’s such a big guy: tall, broad, and muscular, but not thin or fat. He gets a good yelling going when he’s on the line, which I really enjoy: I prefer social settings wherein properly wielded aggression is common, which he seems to do. But the bitch shouldn’t have called me slow, and damn sure shouldn’t have tried an empty threat with me. Fucking idiots.

Oh, and just to pat myself on the back: I have a young FTM housemate, of most appropriate thickness, whom seems interested in me, and I stay the hell away from. For those new to my ridiculous life: FTM are my fucking fetish in a hard way. I love women. I hate women whom try to fit the childish/sociopathic stereotypes of females. Too bad most trannies seem blatantly bonkers, and thus no relationship is likely to succeed. Story of my life.

Such. Appropriate. Thickness. I’m certain it tastes like strawberries and hope.

Journal Hub



~ by Louis Naughtic on August 13, 2017.

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