Prison Sentence

I walk in and there is unwanted junk waiting for me expectantly, wanting to be picked up from the spot that its inconsiderate owner dumped it. I throw it out without looking. I have sifted through over 400 sacks of stinking, dirty, no good stuff practically thrown at my feet since I came back from Christmas break.

I can’t understand myself or why I’m surprised because this happens every year and every single January I threaten to leave, tell myself the job is killing me, tell myself I deserve better, convince myself this is the worst job that ever existed. Worse than prison, a punishment for wanting money to feed myself, the only job available, with the only employer to recruit me despite my poor interview techniques. 

Gratitude for my current boss does not stop me from wanting to be elsewhere, to be stress free or less stress free than I am now. To be chosen by someone else as a potential adequate employee. I do feel imprisoned by this job, locked away in a window-less room to inhale my own carbon dioxide for 8 hours without passing out. I should get beaten outside with a baton for daily exercise but I can’t go out, and the visitors I get are strangers I wish were in here instead of me just so that know how it feels to do this job day after day. To spend hours throwing tat from one bag and into another to be sent to landfill. 

I hope they feel my back pain within only a few hours, I hope they sprain their wrists lifting, I hope they’re driven mad from technology that fails to respond, vital machinery breaking down. I hope they’re spat on and verbally abused and then see how difficult it is to continue with the monotony, alone when the staff don’t show up, and without bursting into tears by closing time.

I would be a customer, I would watch them break just so that it’s not only me that’s losing my marbles or will to live. Then I would go to them and say “you deserve better than this” and listen as they say that no reputable employer wants them now, that no employer sees this job as respectable work. They would be right, and the work I do here stands for nothing more than shop assistant when it is management in all its forms. It is the epitome of stress and you’re all alone to cave in on yourself as strangers watch from the other side of the bars.

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