Eighthly, Ninthly, Tenthly...

I hate accepting charity from people (well, okay, that's kind of a lie because if I actually hated it, I'd totally refuse it) but Former Possible Roommate was just given a $1000 from her rich grandparents who always seem to be giving her friggin' money and she says, because she worries about me, that she wants to take me grocery shopping. She's going to give me $100 of that money for groceries. Me = floored by her generousity. I was like "Whoa. That's really too much", but she was quite persistant. So... yeah. Holy shit.

I wish people wouldn't worry about me, though. My parents worry about me, my co-workers worry about me, I'm sure some of you people worry about me too... I honestly believe, though, that's it's been my poor life decisions that have lead me to this position where every dollar is spoken for before I even earn it, so there's a limit to how much pity and sympathy I deserve. But, you know, I figure... I'm young. I'm stupid. I'm still figuring things out. Things won't always be like this.

During our little morning meeting this morning, management was talking about hours and stuff and how they're so crazy right now and how a lot of people aren't getting many, and she goes "Well, a lot of you might notice that Emu-Head gets a lot of hours, but she has full-availability and a knowledge of the whole store, whereas a lot of the rest of you don't, so that's the reason for that." Except she didn't actually call me Emu-Head, of course. The minute someone at work calls me Emu-Head is the minute I run screaming out of the mall. But anyways, my point being... I get a lot of hours? Since when? 25 hours a week is a lot? What?! There are people who are getting more than me.

Anyhoos. A group of people from work are going to the bar tonight... a sort of going away party for the 2 people who just finished their last week there. I thought about going but... first of all, I don't like bars. Secondly, I'm tired. Thirdly, I'm poor. Fourthly, I'm technically not supposed to drink while I'm taking these anti-depressants... defeats the purpose or whatever, I guess. And fifthly... I'm just making up words now. Sixthly isn't a real word either. Neither is seventhly.

I've decided that I'm going home next Saturday, to return the following Wednesday. My 22nd birthday party will be, like, 5 days long. With no alcohol. Pity.


2007-03-03 at 8:30 p.m.