Sometimes you get a fancy new promotion that equals not getting to make lattes (which is what you actually like doing because fun old men tell you that you're the best of anyone at them and you make piles and piles of beautiful, meringue-like foam that is the envy of the world and you don't have to sit staring at a register all day and fondling nasty pastries) and start having to do silly things like churn out mocha barrels and foppoKeno mix and drinking custard, as Damian calls eggnog, to prep everyone else for things being just grand. But you get more money and you get to boss fuckwits around and you like your boss and don't want to disappoint and so you think, okay, great, I'll do this. But you are dumb and do not realize that it is the motherfucking holiday season, and that you get bronchitis every goddamn year around this time, and that you've stopped sleeping, and so stress factor heaps upon stress factor and you can't think straight and pulling 16 hour days is starting to really wear thin until you get in your car after work today and burst into tears because, fucking shit, YOU HATE FEELING INCOMPETENT AND UNDERMINED AT EVERY TURN.
And so you're crossing the bridge to go to your second job, because that's what you do now, you work, and you're crying and people are looking at you and you feel like a turd for getting this riled up about something that is so spectacularly unimportant, even more so than usual, and then you realize that King Kong has a midnight showing tonight and you burst out laughing and everything is great. Because when it all fucking blows up, you are a two year old who can be rewarded with flashy moving pictures, licorice, and high fructose corn syrup drinks. God, I am so fucking retarded.
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