So, what you've got to do is wait for that perfect opportunity, for when you have an opening, and something certain lined up that you can then turn to your boss and tell him or her, or at least write in your resignation letter, exactly what you think of them.
It's a beautiful thing, and I promise you, if you ever get the shot, you will know you've earned it.
I have been told by one friend and one family member that how I handled my termination at the life-sucking occupation of Cigar Clerk was unprofessional. I don't disagree with them. It was petulant. It was bratty. And I fucked them not only in the store, but also on the corporate side where they hired me the day before as a production assistant, and two hours later my morning job made me an offer that I had proposed to them. Actually, they did way better than what I had proposed, and I am unbelievably grateful. These folks too shall get my flesh and my blood, but I will be grateful, like I was when I began at the cigar store, but certainly not like how I left it. However, my departure, from my perspective, was showy, and large. They probably rolled right over like nobody even noticed, but from my side ... wow, what a fucking exit. I turned my back on them, just like they had to me at least three times before.
And my exit letter ... oh, by gods. It was like a literary version of TWO GIRLS AND A CUP. No, I'm not proud. I went back to the sandbox. I had a choice: 1) do it classy, pretend like they never affected me, or 2) tell them exactly what I thought at the height of my own literary putrescence. I knew I wasn't going back, not this time. I challenged my situation, and I won. I did it without prayer, by the way, but if you know me, you knew that.
I now make a living wage.
I am alive.
I don't really care if I walked away from that shit hole in an unproifessional manner.
What matters is that I walked away.
On my terms.
And it feels good.
Now I have a desk. And a cubicle. And no one bothers me unless it's important. And I work on a computer. And I work hard. And no one's ever going to show me their colostomy bag like it's the most usual thing in the world to have on you, half full.
yeah, that happened.
There's being a clerk, and then there's being a clerk where I worked. We invited both ends of the spectrum -- from the filthy poor to the stinking rich. I met Dennis Prager once, and Jon Favreau's dad, and I liked the guys I worked with, but the herd ... holy fucking shit, what is wrong with you people? I have a new and complete reverence for store clerks, and I doubt I will ever return a thing again unless it just doesn't work after I get in the door. And if you get surly with me, Mr. or Mrs. Counter Person? You are going to get my, "I am The Most Charming DoucheBag You Have Ever Known" bullshit that I put on for douchebags when they came up to me in a surly mood ready to spit vinegar and take names.
Whatever ... it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter that I was a brat. People are worried about my resignation letter catching up with me. Bah. I've already been caught, I've been kicked, I've been netted, I've been torn, broken, mashed ... you want to catch up with me, I haven't fucking gone anywhere. I AM RIGHT HERE. Still. And you've brought your worst, you cunts. And I am STILL HERE. Still here. Still here. Na-nee, nah-nee, bo-bo ... I survived myself, I survived you, and now I'm starting a whole new leg of my life where transportation isn't going to kill me, I can afford to eat on my days off, and I get to be left alone all day in a cubicle. This feels like Heaven.
I am going to work my ass off for these people.
This wasn't a new hiring, this was a fucking animal rescue.
