Hungover Like a Mother F$#*er!

I feel like a leaking bag of shit today. The staccato drum of pain in my temple feels alarmingly like a series of mild stroke. Acidic bile is percolating at the back of my throat as waves of nausea threaten to blanket retail customers in a column of vomit.

Calling in sick to a month old job is probably a bad idea. Fuck it. One of the few benefits to a shitty, minimum wage retail job is the freedom that comes with not giving a fuck.

So, staying loyal to my apathy, I decided to go to work anyway, hung over, smelling like fetid garbage left in the hot Atlanta sun, and openly unpleasant to the customers.

“Do you have any black Barbies?” some disembodied voice cuts through my muddled thoughts like the sudden rattle of a jackhammer.

“Huh?”

“BLACK Barbie dolls!” the fat woman snorts, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “All the dolls here are white. Do you have any dolls of color?”

“No,” I sneer, fighting back the mouthful of yesterdays toaster pizza. “This store is run by white supremacists. They think black people are inferior.”

Her outrage renders the woman blissfully silent, allowing me the opportunity to stumble to the bathroom and retch violently.

Last night was a transient slur of booze fueled rage. Blake and I decided to practice, something I was convinced would improve our less-than-stellar live performance. I queued up a drum beat I liked and we got to it. Inevitably, things quickly degraded into bong hits, chopping up lines of prescription drugs, alcohol binging, then fist fighting as a nightcap.

Thankfully, Blake’s roundhouse jab missed my face, striking me on the side of the head. A painful lump the size of a small walnut is concealed by my hair, which is convenient. It’s important to maintain a professional level of presentation when working a shitty job you hate. It just won’t do to have a black eye or split lip when you’re selling action figures to spoiled children.

Despite my state of walking death, I’m glad I came to work today. Shit, I’m typing this blog on my phone while children turn the aisles into complete bedlam. I need the cash. Since this isn’t a full time gig, sick days are unpaid. As we all know, narcotics cost money.

An eight ball on payday is looking mighty tempting. Fuck rent.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s