My life has changed monumentally within the past few weeks.
I’ve become one of those people who hates people.
Okay, not really. That is, I don’t hate all people. And “hate” might be too powerful of a word to describe my feelings; it’s more like I’ve become disillusioned as of late.
The point is that I’ve changed, and I’m not sure that it’s been a change for the better. See, Poor Kyle has taken on weekend job in which I play absolutely no part because that would be illegal since I can’t work in Canada, and I am nothing if not straight-laced and if you are the immigration people and you’re reading this: I never lie.
That said, I do, on occasion, accompany Poor Kyle to his job and provide him with support of the moral persuasion. {After all, he did take the job so we could pay for my college tuition–offering him moral support is the least I could do.} At any rate, the job is this: wake up on Friday and Saturday in the wee hours of the morning, commute 30 minutes, and clean a movie theatre which takes oh…about nine hours. Nine. Hours. As in nine.
It’s wretched, truly, but the price is right for Poor Kyle (who is the only one working and the only one getting paid and the only one who really matters in this story [ahem]).
It hurts my heart to watch Poor Kyle work himself to misery on the weekends, after already putting in a full week of driving to and from Oregon. But he doesn’t seem to mind too much, and it will help us get out of debt faster, so for now it will do.
But it hasn’t come without a price. It’s made me hate the world.
Okay, okay…not the entire world. Just the movie theatre world. That’s right–I’ve become the kind of person who doesn’t like going to movies. Poor Kyle gets so sad when he hears this; he really enjoys a good flick on a giant screen with a soda only inches away. Me? I used to, definitely. But…after not spending nine hours every Friday and Saturday night working up a constant flow of sweat, and not picking up fifty bags of garbage, and not finding used contraceptive paraphernalia, and not getting filthy popcorn-y mop water backsplash in my mouth, and not cleaning 30 toilets and urinals with nothing but rubber gloves and a sponge…
Photo (and interesting article) from here.
…let’s just say that my eyes have seen the ways of the world, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. All my illusions have been dissed. With every bag of popcorn spilled that I don’t clean up, I feel my thoughts turn increasingly bitter. I imagine the scenario in which the mess was made—whether it was a 500 pound man who couldn’t reach around his front to transfer the bag from one hand to the other, or a five year-old kid who insisted she needed the biggest bag of popcorn and then threw it down when she was finished…
…I hate ’em all. And I normally don’t like using the word “hate.” I don’t like the malice in my soul, but I can’t seem to make it leave. The filth, the gluttony, the willy-nilly scattering of popcorn kernels—it’s all worked its way into my once-(fairly) compassionate heart, and I want nothing to do with it.
Only now Twilight has come out, and I might sort of wish my gung-ho cold turkey attitude could have waited a few weeks.
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