10:46 p.m. - 09.09.2002
Fuck you! I'm out!!!
I'm quitting my job.
I know that I shouldn't. But for the past three weeks, I've been putting away clothes and working the register.
And I love being on the register. I'm a kick-ass cashier. I'm pleasant; I always smile. And even though I haven't been there long, some people even know me by name.
The problem: my register has been short three times. Today was the third time.
My manager, Marie, told me that they're going to have me work in the back now. I don't want to work in the back. If that's what I started off doing, then maybe. But I like working out front. I'm good with the customers. Fuck that. I'm great with customers. Even if the customer is acting like a total asshole, I always manage to maintain my professionalism.
I told my coworker Laura that I was quitting without giving notice. I hate that money has been missing and I don't know why or how. I always give the customers back the correct change; I'm not stealing the money. But if I can't do what I want, what I've been doing, what I'm good at ... then fuck it.
I hate that I'm putting all my eggs in one basket with this possible job at Torrid. I need a job for my new VCR and my car insurance. So I don't get the job at Torrid... I'm just SOL.
I'm going to call tomorrow morning to let them know that I can't work there anymore.
For a brief moment in time, I envisioned one of those clich� quittings. I come in and they reprimand me for something ... anything really. And I just flip out. I'll be just like Scarface from Half Baked.
"Fuck you!! Fuck you!! ... You're cool. And fuck you! I'm out!!!" ...As I throw a hanger at a customer.
Or if I had gotten fired, one of those really public outbursts (in front of a lot of customers):
"You can't fire me!!! I quit!!!"
But I guess I'll just have to settle for calling them.
