Work’s gonna suck the next week or two. I have to work three eight-hour shifts the next three days (currently almost an hour into the first one), then I’m scheduled for 35 hours next week. My mom’s happy, because it means 1.) I’m not in the house as much, 2.) when I’m home, I’ll be too tired to bother her, and 3.) my next paycheck’s gonna be astronomical, which means the half that goes to her is gonna buy her and her boyfriend a nice, relaxing weekend. As for me... I wouldn’t even think to complain if it was a job where I could sit down for more than a few seconds at a time. Yesterday’s seven-hour shift, on the coattails of a week of quarantine, killed my legs, and I’m pretty sure I fractured my middle toe on my right foot.
Adding insult to injury, I work exclusively morning to afternoon/morning to evening shifts the next two weeks, meaning I have minimal time to work on covers or even talk to my girlfriend before I pass out, only to have to get up at 5:30 or 6 the next morning and do it all over again.
The pay is great. That’s what I have to keep telling myself. The pay is great. The pay is great.
