>I begin this post by dispelling an old myth.

Myth: The customer is always right.

Reality: The customer is rarely, if ever right. The person serving the customer is right, largely because that person works in the f’ing store.

Example Dialogue:

Idiot customer: You know, the other Jacob Junior is selling this shirt at a lower price.

Me: No, they aren’t.

Idiot customer: Well they are. I was just there.

Me: Well, they aren’t. I don’t know what to tell you. But if by some crazy chance they are, which they aren’t, then why don’t you go back there and buy it you fool, and leave me alone to hate this job in peace.

In other news, I’ve reached a depth of depression previously unknown to me. Those of you who know me well are aware of these phases but I bet you haven’t seen me this low. Quite the achievement actually. Gold tarnished star for me. Recently, I have found myself (much to my personal disgust) getting teary-eyed at kittens, and the smell of xmas tags, and sappy, idiot, lame-ass songs on the bloody Jacob Junior cd. Sensible people get depressed and cry over cool things like death and destruction in foreign lands. I cry over Rascal Flats or whatever the hell their names are. It’s pathetic on a level that I don’t even want to think about.
However, while I’ll never be able to pin down the source of my depression (aside from a general neurotransmitter problem) I am now able to pin down the triggers. F’ing retail is an f’ing trigger. I hate my job so much it hurts. I hate getting on the bus knowing that my destination is the bloody shopping mall and that I’m going to spend 8 hours peddling jeans and t-shirts made by five year old Bangladeshi kids only to get back on the bus and listen to the evening moron crowd of loser teens with pants the size of a small country hanging off of their asses natter on about “bitches ‘n guns ‘n shit”. I hate pretending to care about the KPIs, CRs, $/Trans, SRs, PIPs, and so on. I hate screening resumes and seeing myself write down “not Jacob” on them as if Jacob isn’t a clothing store but a crazy social standard that people have to live up to. I hate that I know certain articles of clothing are going to fall apart and that the customer is wasting their money but that I can’t say anything. Etc. Etc.
Previous bouts of depression have seen me wallow for two to seven days, generally in bed, watching “When Harry met Sally” or “Reality Bites” on repeat, eating ice cream with a side of fries. But this doesn’t get me anywhere. Well, that’s not entirely true. It does make me feel bloated but content. But there is no long term fix. So this time I’m trying a new tactic. I’m going to actively take hold of my depression and choke it with activity and ambition. I’m going to, in other words, find a new job.

But now I must head to my f’ing horrible job. Stay tuned.