Sol Grossman

Today the alcohol and beverage manager at work cornered me. "Lately you've looked so miserable," he told me, "but you don't have any excuse to. You're leaving here in six weeks. Every day you should come to work saying to yourself, "Wow, I only have five weeks and four days to go,"" he said. 

I didn't even attack his lame suggestion. Instead I interpreted his bossiness as care and concern. "I am miserable," I responded. "I don't like it when people are lazy. It makes me frustrated when people don't do the job they're contracted to do. I always try to act with composure but it gets difficult when people blatantly talk shit about you in Spanish right in front of your face not even thinking that you can hear your FUCKING NAME pop up every third sentence and when  you say, "hey dudes I'm not fucking stupid I can totally hear you," they clam up all embarrassed. But mostly I don't like it when my manager forgets we have a fucking party on the second floor and didn't remember until it was already supposed to start and that leaves me working a 48-person party all by myself." 

I know I should have used the conversation as a pick-me-up and made a resolution to stop looking like such a bitter sourpuss. Instead it made me yearn for the days when I actually had a real therapist. And that made me feel pissed off.