When the highlight of your day is
a cigarette – that’s when you know something’s very wrong with your life. I sat
there inhaling the smoke when it struck me – When did I get so fucked up?!
---
I was working for three years now
on the same job during the summer. 3 months. 90 days. 8 hours a day as a
cashier and sales personnel. One 30 minute break after the 4th hour
and several cigarette breaks.
I was a cashier in one of those
big supermarkets in a small town where you know all the people who go there and
the only foreigners come in the summer.
I remember the 1st
year when I started. I was 16 and I was so fucking scared that I was going to
mess up something or break the goods I had to arrange on the stools. I was
terrified by my boss and by my colleagues because they were so much older than
me. My boss, of course, was the greatest douchebag on the planet who had a
thing for exploiting his employees. He drew some kind of sick pleasure from torturing
us. That year I basically spent every day crying from anger and frustration
because of that asshole. I was so extremely mad that I used to rush home from
work and just burst into tears because I knew I couldn’t inflict any kind of
pain on him.
The second year I don’t know if it
was because I was older or because there wasn’t the shock of being a newbie at
the job but I handled the whole “3-months-of-hell-thing”
a little differently. I was still getting fucking angry at the boss but with no
crying this time around. However, there was smashing of things… I even got my
finger broken. After a “casual” conversation with the boss when he told me I
had to work for 12 straight hours the next day, on my way home I passed by this
metal wall covering some old building and started punching it. After 10 minutes
of angry punching and screaming, my knuckles were bloody and I couldn’t feel one
of my fingers. Every day of that summer I was swearing and cursing him. I even
wished he were dead. Yeah.. good times.
The 3rd year: Smoking
… and you sort of feel… nothing.
Apathy drains you. Apathy kills you.
There are two types of people in
the world: ‘workers’ and ‘artists’. The ‘artists’ love the job
they do and they don’t feel empty after doing it. The ‘workers’ are the rest of
the humanity. They are the people who work for the money. They spend 3, 6 or 36
years on a job they hate because they need the money. And that, folks, is how
the system fucks you up. You are flushed down the whirlpool of millions unhappy
unsatisfied soulless creatures because the System wants you only for your
manual labor. The System doesn’t care if you’re dead or alive. If you die,
another worker will come along. The artists are those whose work requires their
brain and soul. If you stop thinking – you turn into a vegetable.
These are the 3 stages of being a
worker: anger, physical violence and complete and utter apathy.
I was trying to avoid people as
often as possible. Not that I hated them. I just had no particular feelings
towards them. I looked around blankly. I was a passerby. I stood idly by. Watching
the world turning around. The System was breaking me down and I couldn’t stop Her.
Every day. By the clock. 8 am. Go
to work or maybe brush your teeth. Wasting my fuckin’ life. Would you like a bag
for these, ma’am? How can I be of service? Would you care to try our new juice?
Just came in. We’ve got lots of flavours – apple, wild berries, orange and the
blood of your first unborn child. Only 0,99 $ and I’ll throw an extra bottle if
you tell me the capital city of Zimbabwe. I don’t want to grow up. Because when
I grow up I’ll be a cashier again and daddy won’t love me. Still, I’ll have
money for bubblegum and probably buy a car.
I’m a white trash beautiful and I’m
gonna make you love me with my magic wand. I smoke a pack a day and I will probably
die at 43 by lung cancer but that’s pretty fine because my cigarettes are
getting expensive.
---
So there I was – in the highlight
of my day. Having a smoke on a bus stop under neon lights and the midnight sky.
And that question stuck in my mind. When
did I get so fucked up? - When I embraced
the thinking that I must have money,
that I need them. That I’m dependent. The love of things turns into hatred of oneself.
I had the poison sunk too deep in my body and I couldn’t suck it out. Apathy loved me and I needed her. I didn’t
feel like crying. I didn’t want to crush down walls with my hands. I was
useless; futile; vain. I didn’t know how to change it. I had to make my peace
with it. Acceptance of my faith.
I have to go now. Work tomorrow. Just
let me finish this last cigarette.
V.
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