Be professional.

The world lives and dies by its minimum (or less) wagers. Billions of untalented unprideful morons out there serving all the other morons in food, labor, sales, anything. Sure, we all start out in this area. You kind of have to unless you have a gift of some kind. But the reality is that alot of us don't have any gifts. We are just lazy losers. Yeah, we have all kinds of excuses and reasons in an attempt to save face, but come on. It's almost like your losing it the more you try to save it. In other words, knock it the hell off.

It says not to take us seriously, but let's be honest . . . and be honest. Besides, they say sixty percent of a joke is, in fact, truth. That's more than fifty, so why not round up and just go with saying the whole thing is really what you mean? At least I am. Stab 'em in the front.

What a cute intro. Onto the meat, the meal, the main dish. All of my jobs that I've had but one have been minimum wage. And most of them I haven't really minded so much. I've taken the mentality I mentioned above to each, and that sort-of twisted perspective has pulled me in with a strange desire to find a rather odd worth or value to the pointless tasks I work at. But not lately. Lately I've been at a subway. The ruiners of the sandwich. I admit, I've eaten there plenty times. Of course. I still do. We get free sandwiches and it means less for the food bill. Basically, believe me when I tell you I'm in it only for the money, but even that's hardly doing it for me anymore. There's a hint of my former note-leaving roommate at this place. Everytime I come in, there's a new note (or a few in fact) telling us all something what we're doing wrong or what we're still doing wrong or what we're not doing or what we're still not doing or whatever. One will point out our mistake and then "I don't know why I keep having to tell you this. You have All been trained how to do this, so do it! No Exceptions!" Key words there are the last two. I feel like we should be called Subway: No Exceptions! sometimes.

We recently had a health inspection. We had failed the five prior. They told us if we failed this one, we'd reportedly be shut down. Man how I prayed we'd fail. But we didn't. Just as well. The product I serve and how I serve it gives me no pride whatsoever in my work. In Orwell's Down and Out in Paris in London, he talks about how every job should have a sort of pride to it. And even sometimes in the lowest most pathetic jobs a pride is still attainable. There's no pride in what I do. None. They call us sandwich artists. That's our stupid name. One guy I was serving one day told me so. He said "Wow, what a sandwich. You're quite the sandwich artist!" I told him what we do is not art. I was of course being starkly serious but he thought it was funny. Good for him. Enjoy your art, retard.

The management is invisible. This is the first job I've had like this. Well, obviously they're not entirely invisible. Some jackhole has to be leaving those notes. The person who does our schedules, I still haven't met. I don't even know who she is. She apparently does the schedules for, like, sixteen stores or something. If we ever call any one of the five managers, they don't answer. If you keep bugging them, they might, like the other day. But over spring break, I had asked for the week off because I went home and they gave it to me. Well, the idiot who I haven't met scheduled me for that week and I had to call the main manager of that place, and because it was my cell phone number, she answered; but twenty seconds into the phone call, she hung up. I called back to the store, and my co-worker said "Oh yeah, she does that." Oh. Sure. Okay. She hangs up on you. Or doesn't answer.

It goes on but this post is long enough. And miserable enough.

I don't know how to end this post. I tried some endings earlier but, oh, let's just end it here.