Gone are the days of dicking around aimlessly, twiddling my thumbs staring at the door longingly for a familiar face to walk in. Gone are the days of taking my sweet ass time in the ladies room, cleaning my fingernails and making distorted faces in the mirror.
GONE. ARE. THE. DAYS. OF. FREEDOM.
Maybe I'm being dramatic. But do I care? No, this is my blog.
More causeless groaning in.. Five, four, three, two:
I began to question my significance today. Does anyone care I exist? Am I memorable? When I die will anyone have a funny anecdote to share? What sparked this melodramatic inner-crisis? You might find yourself asking; well, allow me to oblige.
What you're about to read is entirely factual and unfortunately fairly typical. Let me set the scene, a loud-mouthed resident (LMR) in a floor length denim jumper crowds the desk followed by a balding glossy-eyed dementia patient (Sarah) who had abruptly woken up after falling asleep open-mouthed in the living room. They spot me.
LMR: Sarah! Oh my goodness, I haven't seen you all week. Sarah! Sarah! Sarah! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?
D: Err, good. (Silently questioning if I should tell her my name is not Sarah, but Danielle, a name with almost none of the same letters.)
LMR: Look at this! Sarah's everywhere! One right here, and one right here. (points)
Sarah: Ohhh! Your name is Sarah? So is mine. Do you know what it means?
LMR: EVERYONE DOES. YOU TELL US ALL THE TIME. (huffs, puffs)
D: No, I actually don't, what does it mean? (Because it's not my name LMR, and thanks for telling her it was)
LMR: Oh here we go, goodbye Sarahs!
Sarah: Princess, but I am a Queen.
Well played Sarah, looks like I am just a peasant posing as a princess.
LMR continued to call me Sarah for the duration of my shift, ungrateful witch. Not a few weeks ago I was scrubbing her table and chair legs, ass crack out in the air and sweating like a hog. Yeah, you're welcome lady.
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