Dear Diary,
it's wage-slave time.
I think it was only forty-five minutes ago that I pulled on my polyester uniform with the enthusiasm of a Victorian orphan headed for the coal mines, and went to work.
I hate it.
I don't mean the hunky-dory sparkly rainbow coal mines full of unicorns and labor laws, mind you. I'm talking about the dark, claustrophobic ones with a hundred unwashed wannabe rapists working in them. Oh, and spiders. Lots of spiders in the coal mines, would be my guess.
Uneducated guess, anyway.
Oh well.
I'm making another coffee. I've been trying to decrease my tolerance to caffeine, actually, but that's on pause, since I think I'm on like 3 hours of sleep. Cara told me I've got a resting bitch face that's frightening our guests. I'm just tired. And Terry's coming in again later for more training. I want a raise.
***
I'm writing this instead of screaming into the void—or rather, my bathroom mirror, back at home. I left work three hours early, leaving Terry to fuck up the work at reception by himself tonight on his second-ever shift at the hotel.
Why, you ask, my dear Diary?
Because I was exhausted after staying up all night under a fucking lamp post?
Nope! I'm a good employee. That's not why.
It's because Terry—sweet, stupid, too-much-sugar-in-his-coffee, can't-pronounce-my name-right Terry—confided in me that his starting salary is HIGHER THAN MINE. HIS STARTING SALARY. HIGHER THAN MINE. More than what I'm making after TWO YEARS of slave labor and managing mouth-breathing IDIOTS who can't read a Wi-Fi password!
Oh, and he gets extra vacation days, too, because he definitely needs those. According to him, he negotiated well on his interview. Bless his stupid little gamer heart—he said that to me like he felt sorry for me. I want to stab him with the fucking bendy key to room 402.
I only didn't because I'm his bestie at the hotel, and I want to keep him from suspecting just how fucking willing I am to STAB HIM IN THE BACK.
God DAMMIT—I WANT TO KILL HIM … Urgh.
It's not his fault, anyway. He just told me how it is—no, no, this is on Cara. Cara McSmiley-bitchface, my fellow woman who once told me, "We're all equal here," and then docked my overtime because I didn't smile enough while I was on my period. Who tells everyone I'm bipolar behind my back, so they all walk on eggshells—including Terry, by the way—because that DIDN'T TAKE VERY FUCKING LONG AT ALL, DID IT?!
By the way, thank you for telling me she told you that, Terry. I am now going to murder Cara slowly and enjoy every second of it.
Urgh … But dear Diary, you have no idea how much it sucks that I have to say that in the future tense. Because today, damn it, I had to make another 'calm, rational decision', as John was always fond of saying.
Damn … I really miss him…
Yeah, well, since he's gone, I didn't quite manage 'calm and rational'. I walked out of reception and into Food & Bev, ignored Pierre, who offered me a glass of water, stole a steak knife, and gave myself a neat little wrist line—nothing deadly, just for the visuals. Then I shoved my hand down my pants and marched up to McSmiley and told her my period was hitting me hard.
She looked at me like I'd taken a dump in her office chair—shit, that'd be a good idea. But she let me go. Didn't want to deal with a lawsuit, maybe.
So now I'm home 3 hours early. Still in uniform, and I got some blood on it that'll be hard to wash out. Terry is alone at the front desk, probably failing to take guests to rooms he can't find and figuring out a booking system he barely understands. And Cara's probably talking shit about me to him as we speak.
It's probably only a matter of time before he starts blowing up my WhatsApp, since I have to remain 'reachable'. I wonder if I should leave him out to dry.
Damn it, I probably need someone who will vouch for me at work.
***
Ok, so you know how the nightly oceans of spiders don't usually get more than one or two meters high? Well, my bedroom is on the second floor, and I can no longer see out my window.
I was trying to sleep five minutes ago, but now I'm getting spooked. There's a wall of spiders surrounding my house—just as they surround everyone's houses every night, yeah, yeah—but this time I've got full coverage—it's as if my house asked for a black, skittery condom. Every window where the light's shining outward a little weaker is draped in those things.
I tapped on the window once. They all went ballistic, scrambling in every which direction like homeless drug addicts. And once I stepped back, they calmed down a little.
'Smart me' thinks, 'Well, yeah. That's because they want to eat you. You get too close, they probably smell you and start salivating, or getting horny, or … both.'
'Not-so-smart me' thinks, 'UwU look how they move around when they see me wiggle my finger!'
Yeah, I'm trying that again. And because 'Not-so-smart me' has all the power in this relationship, I'm actually making a pastime of tracing every shape imaginable in the air. Circles. Figure-eight. Peace sign. Swasti … never mind.
But ... you know what? And I swear I took my meds this morning—but it works. The spiders are actually following my directions. Not individually, it looks like—they can't move individually anyway, given how they're climbing all over each other in their wriggling hell-tower leaning on my house—but as a group, like a hive-mind. Together, the mass of them follows my finger.
I trace a spiral in the air, and they start rippling into something similar. I flick my hand to the right, and they launch themselves in that direction, no questions asked.
…
And knock over my trash can again. God dammit.
Still, what the hell is going on?
Hey, this one's for you, John. I'm going to make a heart.
<3 They got it right! <3
It's ugly as hell with all the legs sticking out of it, but still.
But anyway, so either I'm wildly hallucinating, or ... things might just turn out interesting.
This is pretty cool.