The Trials of a Retail Drone

 Working retail sucks.

This is common knowledge, but it bears repeating. Working retail sucks.

It is sadly necessary for our master the Great Economy to survive, nay thrive. It involves plastering a smile on your face and pretending to care about random strangers and their shopping needs. You work horrible hours for low pay and no benefits. The customer is always right, even when they are most definitely WRONG.

I work retail. At least for the time being; as I type I am formulating an escape plan. Perhaps I could dig a tunnel or steal one of the guards uniforms and just walk out of the front gate. Err, door. My current prison cell is the back room of a somewhat prominent retail chain. Back there, I can thankfully avoid most of the worst aspects of retail (customers, cashiering, and customers). Of course, I have my own brand of troubles back there.

My official title is processor. My fellow drones and myself unload truckloads of merchandise, unbox them, label them when required, and set them up to be shelved by other drones.

Over all, it's not *too* horrendous. But this week has spawned a whole new level of suck in the form of back stock.

Apparently the week I was away, someone higher up the chain ( I have my suspicions as to who this idiot is, but won't say it in case one of the soldier drones happens to know how to read) had the absolutely moronic idea to delay working on the bulk (that's furniture and mirrors...you know, big, cumbersome, and bulky) until a few of my fellow drones were all on vacation. With so few people it was allowed to stack up. Add into it a few more shipments comprised of mostly bulk, and you have our current catastrophe.

The entire back room is full, packed nearly to the ceiling with bulk. Dangerously packed, I might add; one must walk on eggshells while moving through the small, tight corridors between the precariously stacked boxes, lest an avalanche occur, injuring or killing us all.

Naturally, this has made my work obligations go from merely vexing to downright uncomfortable; I've experienced a kind of claustrophobia while working under these conditions; my temper is more easily triggered, breathing is more difficult, and I'm acutely paranoid about something falling on me. There have been some near-misses in the two days I've been back. Simply put, I'm constantly on the verge of having a panic attack.

And I'm not the only one.

And of course, our loving overseers haven't set foot in the back room one time to lend a hand. I hear that they come in after we leave, in the evenings to work on the problem, but I've seen little evidence of it, considering the fact that the mess grows worse each day.


Now, I know what you're thinking, "Oh look, Darren complaining about work. What a surprise." And you'd be right. But my bitching serves a purpose besides entertaining anyone bored enough to actually read this blog. It also allows me to think "out loud." Griping is the natural right of all lowly worker drones, in all fields of life. So, you know, don't hate.

Regardless, I've decided to use this horrible situation to my advantage. It will serve as fuel for my disdain for my current not-career, and act as a constant reminder that I need to get a better job. NOW.

So I think I'll got fill out an application of seven. Peace out, bitches.

The Post-Vacation Hangover

It happens to all of us. It's happening to me as I type.

Vacations are awesome. You get to drop all of the baggage of your daily life, and travel somewhere fun. Maybe it's a new and exotic locale, or perhaps it's a familiar place where friends and/or family dwell. Either way, you get to go and breathe the free air of zero responsibility. No hassles, no stress, just good food, drinks, and people.

And then it's over, and you have to return to swampy muck that is Real Life. And that's always difficult. At least, it is for me.

I spent the last week in Anchorage, my old stomping grounds. One of my oldest and best friends was getting married to a wonderful woman, and I had the honor of being the Best Man. Having never been a best man before, I was naturally nervous, but also excited. Anchorage was experiencing an anomaly in the form of sunny skies and hot weather; the entire trip, the temperature didn't drop below 70 degrees.

I'll skip past the detailed description of what I did and with whom while I was there; that's not the purpose of this blog post. I will say this: I spent an amazing week with a lot of good friends. We hung out, ate delicious food, saw some movies, and just shot the shit. I even made some new friends along the way. Oh, and there was that wedding I mentioned earlier. That event deserves it's own post...

Anywho, when it's all said and done, I had a great time. And then I flew back to Seattle, and was greeted with an uncomfortable hug and a sloppy kiss by Real Life. Who, by the way, uses *way* too much tongue.

Now, I can handle most of the tedium of every day life; going to work, paying bills, and bitching about the fantastic Seattle weather just comes with the territory. Everyone has to deal with that vexing minutiae. But the one thing that causes me distress is that, once again, I'm without friends I can see on a regular basis. And that sucks. Badly.

I think the greatest aspect of my trip was having friends I could hang with; it's been more than a year since I was graced with a social life. While I don't think much of Anchorage as a place to live, I cannot deny how much joy it brought me to return for a week. And the source of that joy was, of course, the people who live there.

Now that I'm back, it's quickly sinking into my beautiful bald head that I lack a social life. I've always been something of an introvert; I much prefer reading a good book to going out and partying. Still, even a pseudo-misanthropic fellow such as myself wants, nay, needs, a social circle.

This ever-present solitude is a poisonous thing. It sinks its fangs into you, and forces upon you a stinking miasma of negativity, melancholy, and ennui. It destroys your self esteem, and acts as a blight upon your mental health. I know this because I have experienced it time and again for that past year and a half; through strength of will I manage to shake it off for a time, but like a cloud of blood-sucking mosquitoes, it pursues, desperately trying to drain the life out of you.

So here I sit. Pondering a solution for this ever present conundrum.

Kittens. Why did it have to be kittens?

My mom has adopted a kitten.

The little bundle of furry energy is called Kaleesi, named after some character or title from the Song of Ice and Fire series. I guess. I don't know, I've yet to watch the show or read the books. Don't judge me.

"You fail at life, Darren."

Anywho, Kaleesi has all those wonderful qualities that we look for in a kitten; she easily fits in the palm of your hand, she's so fluffy you could mistake her for a stray dust bunny and try to sweep her up (I've done this twice now), and her meows are so sickeningly sweet that your head is in danger of transmuting into cotton candy and exploding all over the room. So basically, your standard model of kitten.

Of course, with this cuteness comes hassles and complications, not unlike buying a car. Your vehicle provides the means to get from point A to B, and the freedom to leave your house on a Friday night to socialize with your friends. I wonder what that's like...
But along with that freedom comes car payments, maintenance, absurd gas prices, and insurance. Kittens have similar strings attached, and we all know how much felines like string. There's a slew of downsides that the smooth talking Kitten Salesman with the oily smile didn't mention when you stopped by the Kitten Dealership looking for a new model. Things like:

~ Attacking your feet. Whether you  be sitting, sleeping, or mid-step going down the stairs, the kitten will pounce with playful glee, rejoicing in your screams of shocked pain, and in the case of the stairs, limb-flailing terror as you desperately snatch at the stair rail to arrest your visit to the emergency room.

~  Climbing EVERYTHING. House plants, the kitchen counter, tables, book shelves, and your legs. Kittens love to climb. Just the other day, the fuzzy nightmare decided that scaling my window blinds was a worthy endeavor.

~ Invading your space. All felines are guilty of this, but kittens are worse. Kittens give absolutely no fucks about what you're doing or why. Adult cats can at least understand your reasoning for throwing them off the book you were in the middle of reading. But not kittens. Kittens have no understanding of the rage you experience. Furiously dashing them against the wall only encourages them to try again, harder.

"Come at me, bro."

~ Boundless energy. A kitten's playfulness is one of it's selling points. But it quickly becomes a burden when that kitten wants to play in the middle of the night, while you lay safely tucked in your bed. Or when you're in the middle of  playing your 360. Or when you're *trying* to study for your insanely difficult Math exam... -_-

~ Claws and teeth. An unfortunate addition to the adorable meows, silky soft fur, and tiny size are claws and fangs that Hell had a hand in forging for the kitten's use. These diabolical devices are the tools with which the kitten can and will spread discord across your household. I hope you enjoy tiny scratches all over your arms and legs! 

It's a proven fact that cat claws are made of acid and hellfire.

Perhaps it's for all these reasons that my Niece is terrified of Kaleesi. My niece is 8 years old and has an ego that rivals *all* of the Kardashians combined; basically, she's a spoiled brat. Her braggadocio quickly evaporates if Kaleesi gets within 5 feet of her; boastful arrogance transforms into tear-filled screams as she flees towards the nearest high place. Of course, she doesn't seem to understand that kittens are excellent climbers...

I'm tempted to mock her for her fears; my nephew, who isn't even one year old yet, isn't scared of Kaleesi. The two get along famously, taking naps together and chasing each other around the living room.

Taking glee from my niece's terror probably doesn't make me a good uncle, does it?

The shaving woes of a black man

My beard died today.

It was inevitable, I suppose. Shaky hands combined with a propensity towards perfectionism (nit-picking), with a dash of old equipment mixed in for flavor results in a fairly short life span for any particular style of facial hair on yours truly. What really bums me out is that this particular incarnation of beard had lasted a good long while; for four months, it and I shared a symbiotic relationship of epicness. I gave it a home on a face that can only be described as astonishingly handsome (sup ladies? *wink*), and in exchange, the beard gave me warmth, style, and the occasional place to store bits of my lunch when I wanted to save some for later.

And now it's dead. And all I have left is the butchered remnants of its once glorious body. I shall name it "goatee."

Ever since I began to grow real facial hair (not to be confused with the weedy growth one experiences on the onset of puberty and during high school) I've had to deal with the woes of shaving. Nearly every man does, but this is particularly tough for black men. We don't have the freedom to just take a razor, some shaving gel, and slice the growth off like the cancer it is. No, we are plagued with hair that takes a gleeful, malicious delight in confounding us at every turn.

You see, the hair we black folks have is extra coarse (nappy as fuck). This is obvious to anyone who has seen or felt our hair; "velcro" and other, less flattering names come to mind. This extends to our facial hair, and causes problems when one tries to shave it. The hair likes to curl up as it grows. And when I try to use a razor, it likes to curl up UNDER THE SKIN. This results in a special kind of Hell. A Hell called Razor Bumps.

Black men aren't the only ones who are afflicted with this nightmare, of course. But when we get them, we get them hard. If our faces were a pair of testicles, the razor bumps would be size 15, steel-toed boots worn by Olympic soccer players. Soccer players who are desperate to get a goal, or whatever the hell it is soccer players try to do.

As you can imagine, this makes me VERY nervous. The horror pictured above can easily be me if I'm not careful. This is one of, nay, THE reason I grow a beard. A beard means I can walk around not looking like a hideous, malformed troll. Since I wouldn't be comfortable living under a bridge, I would like to avoid looking like a troll.

And now I'm stuck with my new b.f.f. Goatee.

Goatee doesn't possess the awesome shielding power that beard did. With beard, my facial grooming came down to five minutes of trimming. Goatee exposes more of my incredible good looks to the elements, which I suppose is a good thing for all you ladies out there (again with the *wink*). But also means I have to actually *shave*, which as you now know is a risky endeavor. Just in case I didn't get my point across, look at this:

Gross, isn't it?!

There are a few options for the black man who doesn't want facial hair. There are products like Nair that dissolves your hair into an acidic soup that sloshes off your face. There's also the use of electric razors. The first option isn't an option for me; my skin is sensitive to nair-like products, something I discovered the hard way. *shudder*
The electric razor works *for a time*, but sooner or later, the ingrown hair will come.

"But Darren, you dashing rogue, why not just let it grow back into a beard and stop this pointless bitching?"
Well, that's a good question, nameless asshole. The long and short of it is that it will take weeks for it to grow back to it's full splendor, and I don't have the time. I have a wedding to attend, and I must look my best. I can't show up looking like a hobo, now can I?

Old people at the gym O_o

There is a strange and horrifying phenomenon that takes place at the gym, specifically in the locker room. It has to do with the older gentlemen that frequent the gym. Before I go any further, I just want to say that I admire their determination to combat the rude effects of time by working out and getting in shape. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather be a gym rat late in life and enjoy mobility and energy, rather than be stuck using a walker. Barring accidents or illness, there's no reason people in their 60's, 70's, or beyond shouldn't be capable of the same basic functions we of the younger generations enjoy. You know, like walking. Or peeing without the aid of a plastic bag or diaper. Ahem.

Anywho, back to the horror. There is a general consensus among gym-goers when it comes to the locker room. Whether you're coming or going, the rules re simple: go in, get (un)dressed, make polite conversation/small talk when necessary, and LEAVE. Presumably, you are there to repetitiously lift and lower heavy objects until exhausted. You are not there to take up space and chatter for more than half an hour with your friends, taking up valuable space. AND YOU ARE MOST CERTAINLY NOT SUPPOSED TO BE NAKED THE ENTIRE TIME. -_-

Seriously, it's only the older gentlemen who do this. They gather in groups of three to six, and stand there chatting buck-ass naked, in all their saggy, withered glory. Just "blah, blah, blah," while hanging brain. In the middle of the locker room, forcing *everybody* to awkwardly shuffle around them while trying to not see what should not be seen. They, of course, pay it no mind and continue on with their chatter, oblivious to everybody else's discomfort.

Or are they?

On the surface it could easily be that they simply don't understand how awful it is to have to navigate through/around them as they stand in the middle of the locker room, on display like an ostentation of decrepit peacocks. It could easily be a case of absentmindedness brought on by the rigors of old age.

Yeah, I doubt it.

I firmly believe those bastards do it intentionally. They KNOW how much it irks everyone else. It's the only explanation. Why else would they position themselves in such a way that no one can avoid them; whether it be sight or physically moving past them, you're forced to deal with them, like a perverse toll booth.

It's a conspiracy.

Lonely is the Night

As I write this, it's 3:35am. I can't sleep, and haven't managed a good nights rest for close to a week; understandably, the days and nights have begun to blend together. It could be for any number of reasons, this lack of sleep; finals week, also known to the multitudes of students as Hell Week, looms. I have a Math for Health Careers test next Friday that I've yet to prepare for. No, that can't be it; despite my difficulties with mathematics, I'm actually comprehending the materials. I feel, dare I say it, confident the outcome of this last test will be positive.

My head is in a fog, a murky quagmire made up of frustration, dissatisfaction, and loneliness. I honestly don't know which is worse. What I do know is that's resulted in a condition made of equal parts ennui and melancholy. A recipe for disaster, no?

I've been living in this state for more than a year now, and I've had a distressing lack of success making new friends, of forging new relationships. Basically, I spend most days by myself. Oh, not in the physical sense; I'm constantly around people, whether it be coworkers or classmates, family or the random passerby.
Really, any interactions I have on any given day are incidental. So, to some it up, I work and go to school, and when that's done, I come home and read or watch TV or veg out on the interweb.

That's not to say I don't know people around town; there are a few from my former abode who call this city home. But, alas, everyone has their own lives now, and I rarely see them. In fact, months can and do pass without any sort of communication.

Mine is the loneliness of a person who has no one around who "gets" him, who understands his ways. I've always been the weird one in my family, the strange one. My brothers often say that I'm "different," and I am. My interests diverge sharply from theirs; I like reading, they don't. Our tastes in music is like night and day. Style of dress, hobbies, you name it, I'm different. That's not to say they don't accept me for who I am; other than some good natured brotherly gibing that goes both ways, we're good. But acceptance isn't the same thing as understanding, alas.


I doubt a solution will magically present itself to my problem, and such was not my intention by writing this first blog. Really, I just needed to get it off of my mind and, lacking a shoulder, felt this would be a decent medium. It's now 4:06am, and I have to be at work in a little over two hours, so I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight. Well, better luck tomorrow night.