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Diaryland

I Start Fires!

Lexiroth
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Chokie

2002-07-28

Piggy's specs were nicked at: 6:48 p.m.

I walked out of work today. I've never done the likes of that before.

Well, technically, I didn't walk out. I was working overtime and had every right to leave, so any objections can be presented to the lawyer living in my ass.

As far as having to clean shit up goes, my job isn't too terrible. I like most of the people I work with. For ages, I didn't like one particular supervisor (let's call him Peckerhead), but after returning from my siesta two months ago, I decided I'd just shut my mouth and do whatever he told me. We got along fine. And just when I thought he was a human being, he had to go ahead and prove me wrong.

The weekend in Toronto was horribly busy, as the city hosted World Youth Day, during the climax of which Mr. Pope held the Papal Mass this morning. So I said I'd work 5:30 am until 6 pm today if they needed me.

Every one of my managers and supervisors was there today. The vice president of the mall was there today. Yeah, I'd do a really smart thing like go AWOL for half an hour, right?

I was washing windows in a distant land. It was a half hour before break, and I had to visit the washroom because of an emergency that only females can understand. Altogether, the whole process took ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.

I returned, and Peckerhead was waiting for me with the big important manager who signs my paycheques. He said, "Where were you?" I explained that I had to go to the washroom. He said, "for half an hour?"

"Whuzzuh?"

Apparently, he'd sent another girl to deliver something to me, and the girl said she waited for me for "Twenty five minutes." I was in a rage because if there's one thing I hate, it's damnable ape lies. Especially damnable ape lies made about me.

It came down to a classic case of "my word vs. hers." And gee whiz, it's not an easy game to win when the Twenty Five Minute Woman is a Mexican who chatters in her own language with Senor Peckerhead at the lunchroom table.

Senor Peckerhead reminds me that I wander around entirely too much. I fumed and asked him exactly when he's seen me "wandering around." He mentioned one instance he saw me using the washroom (gasp!) for ten minutes. And this occoured waaaaay back in ... November. He told my manager all about my nomadic tendancies, but he didn't list the dates of any examples, of course.

I argued with him for a solid five minutes, and it would've been fun if I hadn't been blinded with rage. I could understand his being angry about me leaving my supplies within stealing distance -- that was stupid of me. But other than that...

I'm not a big person. I'm not a strong person. I hate confrontation, I hate unease. I'll sooner roll over and apologize to settle a dispute instead of argue it to the point of cinders. But I am not standing for this bullroar. Especially since Peckerhead has lied about me before. Last winter, I was half an hour late because of car trouble. He told my manager I was two hours late. Unfortunately, I hadn't punched my card and I couldn't prove that he's a MOTHERFUCKING LYING STINKING ASSHOLE OF A WHORE'S DITCH-BORN BASTARD.

My Big Manager wants to "talk to me" during my shift tommorow morning. I was so inside out about this whole crock of horse crap, I left. I'm sorry, I respect my supervisors, I do what they say, but I don't let them treat me like shit, lie, and take someone's word above mine. I've had far too many jobs where I let supervisors insult me and I just slunk away. Not anymore. If my manager doesn't call me into his office tommorow, I'll be damned sure to go there myself.

It's a shame this had to happen. I was genuinely having a good time with World Youth Week Day. It was crowded, busy, but the atmosphere was electric. Watching a pilgramage of 800,000 Catholics down a closed highway is not something you'll see five times in your life. Apparently, another pilgramage passed outside of my parents' house, and each group of youths had a flag to represent their country. I wonder what life is like in the country of Toronto Maple Leafs.

Jack Chick and other Undie Fundies (um...) claim that the Pope is the Devil on Earth. I'm watching the Pope Dude on TV and wondering why the Devil would choose a feeble body stricken with a plague of unfortunate diseases.

I'm not a big fan of the idea of God having any sort of human representative, but it's impossible not to admire a man who draws a million people to one city thousands of miles from home.

It was a nice event to experience. I bet the Pope wouldn't lie about me. Sniff.