It's murder, this. My temper is short, I've almost entirely run out of patience, the solution, of course, is to leave and I'm resolved, I'm not returning after the vacation, but there's the caution, the memory of hard times too close to forget, the bills aren't yet fully paid, but it will be done one way or the other and I would prefer it be on good terms.
Hot, slow days in the restaurant, customers trickle in, they want to come late, stay later, we're not paid by the hour, there's no incentive to stay until the wee hours, already enough of our lives is stolen, it's trying this "So Happy to see you" game and my patience is wearing thin.
Time passes, each day the same, wake, coffee, bus to work, work, work, home, if I'm lucky the sun's still up, an hour or so on the computer, then to bed. Repeat. If my life were set to music it would be the Vuvuzela theme from the world cup.
The benefits, they haven't kicked in, administrative errors and they're not bringing it up, me either, I'll live.
But in my mind there's always the knowledge that it's the slow murder of innocent days.