I closed the store this evening with Assistant Manager #2. She told me that she understands me not wanting to go to the "celebration" and that she wouldn't be going if she was a barista of shift supervisor. That made me feel a little better. Not enough to allow me to have an uneventful sleep, but better.
As soon as I sat at the desk in back, on my first break, I started to write a letter to Assistant Manager #1. I wanted to tell her to leave me alone. That I made the choices in my life. That her threat was stupid and I wouldn't put up with it. I wanted to do it in a polite way, so it wouldn't upset her too bad.
I noticed that I called her the B-word. So much for polite. Maybe I could just use this one as a draft and rewrite it on my lunch. Then the F-word appeared. Soon I saw the S-word.
Still, maybe I could edit it. It wasn't too bad.
Suddenly, I saw the C-word. In fact, I called her the C-word twice in one sentence. I don't think I had ever written the C-word anywhere before tonight. I always assumed I'd use it on my death bed as I cried out my last FUs to the world. Looks like #1 got the C-word from me first.
I finished the letter and decided that I shouldn't edit it. What's the point? When I see #1 again on Sunday, she's going to pester me no matter what.
Instead, it's stapled into my diary/log/journal thing. One day I'll look back on it and think, "The world was so much simpler back then."
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