No one ever said I want to be a stocker when I grow up...
It seems as if I'm one of the lowest forms of life slithering across this earth. When I'm scheduled to waste six hours of my life putting cans up on the shelf and mopping up spilled milk, my life seems to be completely flushed down the drain. To the customers I'm some sort of 'grocery whore', always there at their beck and call. To my other co-workers, I'm just another shit stain being smeared across this toilet known as the Sparkle Market.
To all you customers out there who stop by... don't think I don't see you glaring at me thinking, "Wow his hair's long. Jeez his job must suck badly, super-badly, super-mega-badly. I wonder if I could steal this six-pack of beer and get away with it, he's not paying any attention." I always see you drop that glass jar of Pace Extra Chunky Salsa, and I know that you expect me to clean that up... I mean, after all, it's my job right? You know what... Why don't you clean it up?
Every time I walk by my bosses I see them staring at me, no, I feel them staring at me because I won't allow myself to make eye contact with such people. They don't think I can figure out that all they do all day is sit in their office and scan all the paperwork, with their mechanical eyes, that shows them how much money they're cheating me out of. If I ever happen to win the lottery, I'd buy that store and make the managers watch as I burnt it to the ground.
So as the time runs out of my fifteen-minute break, I place my pencil down, take the last drag off my cigarette and scan a piece of paper that has this very writeup on it. You know, one can never proofread too much...