New Job Day 2

Day 2

Have you ever tried learning something simple and no matter how hard you try, you just cannot comprehend? (Says the girl who cannot get a legitimate Addy scrip.) This ain’t no thang when it’s hard things like physics, or playing the accordion, or dressing for church. But when its simple things that you know you should understand and don’t, I think it’s your brain telling you: you just aren’t made for it. Sort of like a short girl flawlessly pulling off a maxi dress or a fat girl pulling off a string bikini. You just can’t. At first it’s almost funny.  You can be adding 2+2 and you just can’t figure it out like your brain is on some sort of candid camera show. Then someone gives you the answer of 4 and then re-asks the same question two seconds later and you not only don’t know it, you don’t remember the answer just told to you two seconds ago. I would assume I had some sort of learning disability if I didn’t know better in 80 million other things. The life of a lead something-or-other is hard, homes. Later in class, as we were doing faux banking things together on our computers, I sort of got lost and just skipped ahead with the reasoning that this isn’t a real bank, who cares, and who will notice. Mother fucking son of a bitch, apparently the bank, faux or not, is not the place to cheat or cut corners. When Big T came around (the trainer) she of course was jumbled by my mistakes, which I of course did not admit that I just skipped over shit because it’s my modus operandi to cut as many corners as possible, and then if someone notices, to just play dumb. I feel like I get an adequate punishment, because then people think I’m dumb as a box of hair, and learn to especially hate me when I pull out my lip gloss.

We were not served lunch today. I was fine with that, even if it meant eating my own hair in a 105 degree car in the parking lot. But before I could sneak out to my car to drink my water and eat my Aleve, I was given directions to Taco Bell as well as Arby’s. I hate myself… mostly for thanking these fools rather than just telling them I didn’t get to wear a men’s medium extra small by eating old beef on a bun, or old kitty on a taco. So I went to Bigby’s and tried not to cry off my eye makeup in frustration, as I watch my personality being tucked away in a nilla envelope. (It’s Nilla like the wafer, right?) But then I realized I didn’t wear any eye makeup in a lame attempt to be more liked by Beige #1, Beige #2, the nebbish, and Big T.  And that made me cry harder.

After lunch it was more faux banking that I didn’t really understand because of, you know, my disorder. That being the inability to understand anything exacting. Or anything tedious. Or anything that requires lots of sitting. Or anything taught by a woman wearing a men’s mahogany oxford, guzzling a Mountain Dew. Or let’s be real-- anything that does not allow me to wear god damn sleeveless dresses! I guess if the dress code was opened up a little more, I may have an easier time coping with my horse shit boring ass life as a lead something-or-other.