I suffer from whatever the opposite of ‘writer’s block’ is. Mental diarrhoea? Thought spin syndrome? I don’t know how to call it. My train of thought is like a busy station, all trains are running at the same time in all directions and there’s no announcement. The good thing is that connecting ideas comes somehow naturally to me, I can see how all the trains intersect and interact. The bad thing is that, on occasions like that, train crashes happen. Plenty of train crashes.I don’t want to say that I am obsessed with things, but I kind of want to, because I kind of am. I do fall into rabbit holes.
If I want to tell any story, the main character works in a coffee shop and hates it. They ended up cycling a lot and what happens on the road ends up being a plot point. Every antagonist is a rich kid with a posh accent who wants to be a painter and at the end, the barista blows up the boarding school where the painter studied or something. I don’t remember the last time I had a day off. An actual day off. My full-time job pays my bills and the house I live in. It pays for my groceries, my cheeky weekend breakfasts and my nights out. If I am not working, I am either writing or looking for jobs. I try to maintain my relationships. I try to call my mum, try to keep up with my long-distance friends, and try to keep meeting my nearby ones. None of that could be classified as being off. A day off means, a day of doing nothing. Of just existing. Being lifted of the burden of constantly having something rumbling in the back of my mind.
Today, a Wednesday at the end of March, I was meant to be working in an evening shift. Although I like working mornings more than I like doing evenings, I don’t mind having the odd day where I can make the most of my morning. I sit down with a tea in front of my laptop while I wishfully daydream about this being my writer life. Whatever that might be.
One of the things I hate the most about working in the service industry is the fact that people’s engagement level is low. The caring level is low, and the employee turnover is high. Lovely stuff. Therefore, everyone calls in sick all the time and people come and go in the revolving doors of mediocrity. Because wearing an apron is not humiliating enough. Today, a Wednesday at the end of March, I had some plans to get my creative juices flowing. On the way back from my run, I got a text. My boss, telling me how we are four people down (jokes), asking me if I could start earlier.
I hated it. Not her, not anyone else. It’s no one’s fault. There is no one to blame. The economic system. The fact that people who will never work a day in their lives will pay the mortgage of their third house in Margate exploiting me, draining me, using my time. Time I had spared for different things. I wanted to write for my blog, for my big projects. I wanted to have my little moment and instead, here I am, typing about how angry I am.
I said yes.
I told her to count on me. Because I like her, because I am trustworthy. But above all, because I am going to be in deep trouble if I don’t go. A very weird phenomenon occurs, in which I profoundly hate my job, but I don’t hate any of the people involved. I profoundly hate how this job takes most of my energy and makes it impossible for me to develop any of my creative projects at the pace I would like, and yet I need to cherish it.
It is a need–hate relationship. I need to keep going, be on top, and help my coworkers because, at the core, they are not the agents of my demise. I need to be on top to make it easier for me for the forthcoming workdays, in hospitality, tomorrow can always be worse
My day job, the one I hate, the one that brings me nothing but money, constantly makes me fall behind schedule for the things I want. Makes me check my emails less, makes me write less and read less. My job keeps me enchained, almost as if it was designed for that.
How many cleaners go to museums?
How many construction workers learn to play an instrument after a workday?
How many pink-collar workers write and read after a day of dealing with the lowest of the lowest of the human species?
The system wants us tired, angry, sad, uneducated. Creating art is the superior form of rebellion when you are a cleaner, a construction worker, or a service industry worker. So here I come, perhaps a little less angry now that I have said what I think on the internet, even though no one cares. Here I come, always behind on schedule, always hating my job, but at the same time trying my best. Here I come again through the revolving doors of mediocrity.
Hello sir, yes, do you want a very big portion of chips? Of course you do! Lovely. What ma’am? Do you think your coffee is not hot enough? Oh wow! Let’s call the newspapers, please!
What? How Am I doing?
Well, I am feeling behind, humiliated, and constantly dreading a text from someone calling in sick. Dreading the spontaneous approach of someone asking me to stay longer in a twelve-hour day of serving soup and beans.
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