29th
I’m leaving in three days
Most of my to-do list has been completed, it’s a great feeling. I’ve killed the creatures underneath my bed, the residual arthropods who’ve crawled through the cracks in my walls to bask in the humidity of my bedroom. This could be a result of bad architecture, or the fact that my room is directly behind a laundry room/ bathroom.
I told my boss that I’d be leaving. I told her that I was going to Israel and that my grandfather was sick and had a stroke. She looked at me the same way some people look at crippled puppies or baby pandas. I laughed a little inside my head, and then I felt a little bad for not feeling guilty. It so happened that my grandfather had been sick, and he did have a stroke, but he had also died about a month ago. Don’t worry about it, I certainly didn’t give it much thought; this should be evident by the fact that I utilized a death to bolster my lie. But why was I lying? When I was hired they got me to sign a contract saying that I would provide two weeks notice if I were to leave. When I started working I knew that I would leave in three weeks. They also made me sign a piece of paper that said I would not ‘blog’ about work. Here we go
I usually get to work at seven and leave at three in the morning. If you’re wondering, I take the 17 which runs until around four. On my last night I worked in the dish pit with this fat hindu lady named Nurmal, she can’t even bend over to pick up a fucking tray. Also, I can never understand what she’s saying, at the end of the night we settled on speaking with our hands. When the boss came around and told us to work faster, she mentioned something about how I’m a beginner who’s ‘not very experience’. I did all the fucking work that night.
I was taught to work in the dish pit by a guy named Jesse, our main topics of conversation were music, and how much of a bitch Nurmal was. Working with Jesse was much better than working with Nurmal, except for the frequent breaks he would take to ‘go to 7/11’ aka smoke a joint. He actually quit so that he could go to europe, which is ironic, because I was ‘taking his spot’.
They moved me up to the position of salad-chef, probably because they thought I would quit if forced to work with Nurmal, which may have been true. I’d say I was a decent salad chef, I obeyed most of the rules and didn’t steal too much food. Miguel, a fat Hispanic man from El-Salvador, taught me how to make salads and desserts. I swear he’s called me a ‘gentleman and a scholar’ at least seven times in the past month. He’s a very ironic man. He persistently preaches diligence and deference to the rules of the establishment, refusing to give people free food and warning me frequently about the consequences of not ‘prepping’ efficiently. At the same time, however, he has a collection of these snide tricks. For example, when cutting brownies into even pieces, the first thing you do is cut a long, thin slice done the middle, eat it, and then cut the rest.
Aside from the pay-cheque, numerous free beers and baked potatoes, I can say that the one thing I gained from that job was an aversion to the blue-collar experience. Although I did wear a white dress-shirt on the job.
So what else have I been doing this past month? Absolutely nothing. For my American Politics course, I managed to pass without writing the essay, worth 25%. I’ve been getting inebriated, intoxicated, and impaired beyond repair. I just looked up synonyms for ‘drunk’ and apparently ‘stinko’ is a word.
I finished The Fountainhead, it’s pretty wack, but I enjoyed it. I think it made me realize that sometimes it’s pointless to finish a 700 page book, because such books are usually descriptive enough for it to be obvious what happens in the end.
I’m actually leaving in less than two days, but I started writing this yesterday and then people came over, and then I left to go see people play instruments in a cafe. But that’s not important, what’s important is that I’m leaving on the morning of July 1st, which sucks because I’ll be missing Canada Day.
I’ll be in England first, I’ll be visiting friends who are awesome. Then Clarance will show up and we’ll spend a few nights in a hostel, and then we’ll depart for Paris and Amsterdam and Rome and many nights that hopefully we won’t remember. I’ll be writing about it, or at least I’m saying now that I’ll be writing about it. That’s really the point of this post, just to tell you that I’ll be writing about Europe, here, because a bunch of people asked me if I would, so I gave them a link to this, which they probably won’t read anyways but whatever. The comma-filled drivel to this point was just for fun to clog up my blog.
PS ‘blogging’ isn’t a word, neither is ‘networking’. And in case it’s hard for you to see sarcasm on paper, I really fucking love Canada Day.
