I had to go to back to work three days ago and not ten minutes into my shift, I broke out into a major sweat. The air conditioner must have broken while I was away. And it does it every year. Every summer, more specifically. Of course.
And maybe half an hour later, a group of scuzzy white boys came in and spat chewing tobacco on the fitting room floor. Our customers are all class.
Yeah, I was back in full swing.
I was so stress-free while I was on holiday. Sure, I pressured myself to write more and work on finishing the first edit of my book (which I didn't even touch), but other than being my own bully, things were great. Even greater when my parents were gone for two days.
I felt content. My skin was clearer. I was refreshed and much less despondent. But of course, as soon as I walked into that low rent cesspool of losers, the emptiness sank in again. All energy regained in those several days was drained in several minutes, due to the intense heat and intense idiocy of customers and coworkers alike.
It just showed me how much that job is killing me. The mental energy I have to expend to put up with everyone is incredible. It's no wonder I'm not inspired to write or draw or do anything creative. The first thing I want to do when I get home is eat and then take a nap so I can wake up and go right back to bed.
I only worked two days and now I have another day off today and I need it. I don't even have any plans. If I couldn't get anything accomplished in seven days, there's no hope for a productive one day. But I'm fine with that because although I didn't do anything constructive, I still did what I wanted, which was....
|You're pretty much looking at my vacation. Nothing fancy but effective. Regrets? A few. Refreshing? Definitely.|