yooo, just dropped my coffee cup in the middle of the living room and watched it explode everywhere. it’s like, really? my carpet needed a bold new pattern today? bruh, my life's been feeling like that scene in a movie where everything that could go wrong just... does. I'm literally crouching on the floor, cleaning up what looks like a murder scene with paper towels, questioning my entire life cho...
day 5 of not hearing from my wife. the last message was simple, “working the night shift.” now her employer is holding onto her phone like it’s some sort of trophy. wallah, nobody understands the pressure of waiting by my phone in this tiny studio apartment that feels bigger than it is, filled with memories of us. my friend’s wife got flowers and a raise this week, while I just scroll through the ...
it's not that i have a problem with wearing my name tag to the local grocery store—it’s just that they pay me in store credit and only for five hours of overtime a week while giving me the middle finger on holiday pay; also, why is my manager reminding me to "be cheerful" while i help the customer with the coupon she doesn't understand—when inside i’m just dying because “hello, sir, it’s 2023 and your groceries just cost you what a small car used to”—so now i’m awkwardly smiling while suggesting she try the yogurt with no artificial flavors like that will somehow make the twenty-three-dollar total less crushing.
it's not that i have a problem with wearing my name tag to the local grocery store—it’s just that they pay me in store credit and only for five hours of overtime a week while giving me the middle finger on holiday pay; also, why is my manager reminding me to "be cheerful" while i help the customer with the coupon she doesn't understand—when inside i’m just dying because “hello, sir, it’s 2023 and your groceries just cost you what a small car used to”—so now i’m awkwardly smiling while suggesting she try the yogurt with no artificial flavors like that will somehow make the twenty-three-dollar total less crushing.
its 10pm and my ex calls, asking how it feels to be "under investigation" like I'm some criminal instead of a parent. fast forward two days and there’s a CPS worker in my living room, looking around like she’s on an episode of Hoarders. I'm sweating bullets trying to explain why there's a stack of dishes and why my kid's favorite snack is peanut butter from a jar. but sure, the state has this real...