The person showing me around the school was clearly forced, she did what she had to do and left.
"This is the cafeteria." She sighed.
"Bathroom." No eye contact.
"Library." Clear annoyance.
"Nurse office." More sighing.
"Gym." Now she was rushing.
"Locker room."
"And this is your locker."
"Your first class."
"Goodbye, have a nice first day." And she was gone.
Then, introduction. Notes. Crowded hall. Repeat. Again and again.
Lunch—no money, spend it in the library, sleeping.
More class, more introduction, school's over, walked to my job.
I wanted to go home, but a lazy man doesn't eat. My new job wasn't far from my school. And this time around I was a waitress, the pay was good—not great. The uniform was ugly; more of a cat costume had the stupid cat ears and everything.
Then, after that, I have another job—stripping.
Kidding.
You can't take a joke. I wish I had striping money. It's actually a cleaning job. Then study. Gotta keep my grades up—can't lose my scholarship the second I get it.
To my first job.
I hate this fucking place, assholes all around. Coworkers competing for more attention, squeezing into tighter uniforms. Customers overusing the phrase, 'the customer is always right'. And nobody fucking tips anymore. I know it's your money, but I need it more.
The uniform was clearly cheap and way too tacky. This one old guy comes in every day—he spends the whole time staring at my ass, my nonexistent ass. And staring at my cleavage whenever he orders, he's always sitting in my section, so I have to serve this old creep.
By the time my shift is over, I'm dragging my feet to the next job.
Hellhole number 2
The moment you step in, the stench punches you in the face—sweat, rotting food, and something rank, like wet socks left to die in a corner. The air is thick with mildew and old piss, mixed with the sharp bite of burnt grease. Trash sits somewhere, festering, adding to the nightmare. It's the kind of smell that sticks to your clothes, crawls down your throat, and makes you want to fucking gag.
Cleaning ain't that hard. Some people are just bad at it. I got this job with the help of a coworker from my old job. It also pays well even though it doesn't feel worth it most days. The lady is a fucking pig, how she gets this place so dirty every time never ceases to depress me.
I sweep—because the bitch won't buy a vacuum—then wipe, scrub, dust, wash and repeat till the place looks decent again, then I get paid and leave. The money makes the back pain worth it.
By the time I reach home, it's pitch black out. My body screams for rest, but I still have work to do.
A bath. Then study. I need to keep my grades up—can't lose my scholarship. Can't end up stuck here forever. My hair keeps falling in my face—long overdue for a trim. I don't do salons. Too expensive, too much effort. I cut it myself, quick and messy, just enough to keep it out of my way. A bob works. A pixie cut might be easier, but there's only so much ugly one person can take. I'll cut it another time. Too tired today.
Ok, goodbye now. Go do something with your life. And tip your damn waitress.