My job sucks.
I am an assistant supervisor of a independently-owned insurance billing office. We collect the medical charts and bill customers whenever they attend the Emergency Room. I know, I even started falling asleep just while writing that line. I work with a bunch of moms. A bunch of moms who find the greatest joy in gossip and potlucks. And I am a tall, 23-year-old, red-and-black-dyed-haired supervisor who wears band tees and black nail polish – I give the hens plenty to cluck about.
Besides working in a PMS-filled gossip farm, the place is a slaughterhouse for the young. The company is a good place to work if you need to support a lying, drunk husband and two kids and two bastard children. It pays well and offers terrific benefits. Well, that’s what I hear. I don’t know what benefits are unless it precedes with ”Friends with“. However my 23 year old self is more interested in silently rebelling with my hair color and fashion sense than plan out my retirement savings. Working 40 hours a week is more torturous than a Foster Farms farm, cause at least the animals are decapitated quickly and their death is not drawn out over 20 years.
My relationship sucks. Bad.
My boyfriend is the douchiest asshole ever. If there was an award for ”Worst Boyfriend of the Year“ award, the company offering the award would just stop because he would win every single year. I would not be surprised if he was a descendant of Hitler. He is emotionally abusive, verbally abusive, and, (surprise surprise) physically abusive. Not only is he physically abusive to my body, but to my personal belongings as well. He once aggressively placed my very expensive and brand new MacBook Pro on a dog-piss-stained floor because I wasn’t behaving as he would have liked me to. He not once, but twice, made me late to work by forcing me to stay in the apartment because I again wasn’t behaving how he would have liked me to (I told you I was rebellious).
I met Alan when I was at the vulnerable and naive age of 18. I was at a party (I was always at a party at age 18) and he arrived with his friends. Him and myself and a few other of our friends stayed out all night, because that was the cool thing to do when high school was over. We flirted, talked, and agreed to meet up the next day.
Five years later, we hate each other.
Work sucks. My boyfriend sucks.