Monday, November 8, 2004
I am stupid. That is why I decided to post this still
Oh my fucking christ.
I am all kinds of messed up right now. I am double messed up with knobs. I feel like such a fuck-tard. Dear christ, I need to be taken outside and shot through the kneecaps and then while I'm reeling from that, get shot in the face a couple times.
I had work today. Five to close. Five to, effectively, nine thirty at night. See how it's eight o'clock right now? Yeah. That's cos I slept fifteen hours today and somehow managed to go right through my shift.
I fucking slept through my fucking shift.
I won't even start to argue the logistics of that. I redid my alarm two days ago and changed the time on it and somehow, like the massive flaming moron that I am, I managed to set it to AM, when it's supposed to be PM. So my clock was reading seven fifty-three in the goddamnfuckingmorning, when it was really seven fifty-three at night.
I am sick with guilt.
I literally was in the bathroom two seconds after I realized what time it was, throwing up because I am so guilty out of my mind.
That two people are there right now, doing double the fucking work, because I am a fucking idiot. That two people are stuck by themselves to do my shit. Because I should be shot.
I tried calling. Relentlessly. For ten minutes straight I dialed and redialed and checked the paper the manager gave me and looked it up in the phone book (it's not fucking listed! it must be because the store is new) but nobody is answering. So I think I just have the number for the upstairs office, where nobody has access/can hear the phone.
So I have a fucking no call/no show on my record now. Barely two weeks into the fucking job and I have one. I've never had one of those before, and what a great fucking impression I'm going to set now.
Argh, I think I might vomit again.
So tomorrow I am going to call them. When the store opens. And, like cry into the receiver. Because I can't get in touch with them and I would even ride up there right now, but if I went as fast as I could and narrowly avoided getting hit by another car, it'd still take me fourty-five minutes. And then, y'know, work would totally fucking be over with.
Sigh. I bet they're saying the nastiest things about me too.
And then. Oh christ. I am a flaming idiot.
It is eight in the morning.
Enter delerious insane laughter that only the unbelievably fucked up can laugh.