Okay, let me begin this rant with the fact that my ‘SHIFT’ button never freaking works!
So, your dearly beloved – also the most annoying and ass-like human on this planet, person – i.e. your brother, set his alarm for 5 am. Grand. You get it. He has work there is nothing he can do about that. But what he could do, is turn the fucking alarm OFF, instead of leaving it like that, letting it go off every 5 mins for about 40 mins.
Then because of this you woke up and weren’t able to continue your lovely dream, in which might you say, you were looking forward to the end.
Next we have EMMA. And again you get it. She worked here (in Spar) for a month, so technically longer than you. BUT she has worked only for four days. And even though you have worked here, less than a week, you have been trained by the manager herself – the woman who works here for the longest. So, excuse you if you don’t agree with her fully.
Then, why not let you on the till only for the easiest situations but then leave you there all alone for the hardest ones. You have been on the till for about four hours altogether. And they expect you to know every single name of the cigarettes (there is about eighty different names), how to do the lotto, the price of all the scratch cards, how to use that evil pink machine for topping up gas bills and what not, and lastly to remember all the codes for items that do not have a bar-code?! Like what are you? Einstein?
Then you come home. You want to relax. You want to forget about all the things that went wrong. You want to forget about all the mistakes that you have made (big and small). BUT NO. Because your father inquisitions you on the way home. And then your mother begins this torture when the house door is still open. And you can’t. The same questions, ‘How was your day?’, ‘How was work?’, ‘What happened?’, ‘Are you tired?’, ‘How did you get on, on the till.’. And then your father mentions that you fucked up big time today (because you told him that in the car), and of course the casual follow up questions begin.
And your holding your head, and screaming inside, begging them to stop. You want to just not think – just for a few fucking seconds. Just breathe and just sit down. And you can’t go to your room because you don’t have one. Your imagining the room you will have in the new apartment. The grey walls, the yellow carpet and the white furniture. The space for the piano and guitar. The window through which, every evening, the sun will come in and provide light for your reading.
But then this whole image is wiped out by your screaming parents that say that you don’t listen and pay attention to them. And you blow. You scream that you need a minute. That today was very bad. That your disappointed from yourself. And that if they don’t want a fight and if they don’t want to hear your ‘mean/rude talk’ they will just have to let it go. And let you just curl up into a ball at the end of the couch, where your fathers feet won’t reach because you find them gross (as every other feet).
Next thing you know your up again. Your grabbing your laptop to begin this rant because your not the type that would ‘talk it out’. But you need to tell someone. And you start this with a frown on your face, which exposes every single wrinkle on your forehead.
‘Knock Knock’ (that’s the sound of your phone) – someone send you a text. But you already know who that is. And the minute you pick up the phone you say that your angry. And the minute he replies you have a tiny smile on your face.
After 5 minutes your laughing and you stopped writing this. Instead you’re playing your new song on the piano, hoping that something will go right.
And it does.