NaBlo-Whatever

WordPress was advertising NaBloPoMo. A site that somehow promotes the idea of writing in your blog every day for a month. It’s something along the lines of that site where you write 50,000 words in November. Not exactly sure on the details and I’m too tired to care about the details. But I figured I’d give it a go. Of course, I’m editing some rules – I’m already nine days later, so the possibility of success for writing everyday is out the window. I’m going to write until August 9th. And I’m not going to use their suggested themes – “Heroes” is the worst one I heard yet.

It’s funny. I rarely ever find inspiration to post. It’s not that I don’t want to post. I just don’t know what I want to post, and even when I do, I wind up deleting it afterward. Either I don’t like the way I word things or I just go completely off topic and wind up posting about crap. Look at this, for crying out loud. I was going to blog about the nablodfgh, but instead, I am writing about writing.

Hell, I don’t even know where I want to draw the line. Do I want to type stuff and actually edit it? Do I want my stuff to be read and thought about by others? Or do I just want to express myself and not care if people actually read it and feel enlightened/motivated/whatevered? I’ve realized that I don’t have much of a reader base and I’m too lazy to go on a whole diet kick (we all know that blogs that mention the word ‘diet’ usually get fifteen million times more hits; in fact, any writing does: look at the new york times best sellers). In all, my style changes. Are they good changes? That depends on the mood and style that I am in now. Right now, I don’t care about how I am writing this — hell I left new york times in lowercase and I have absolutely no desire to go back and read this. In my last post, I cared a little. I wanted to get my point across. But by the end, I realized that I did not get my point across and that all my research was, in fact, useless and did not amount to anything. (Hell, to follow up on that – I was right. Ana and Greivi make $12.00 an hour, so the whole data table is screwed. And I was promoted – with no black shirt [maybe I'll write about this next.. Good idea!] or pay raise.) Or, maybe, if we dig a little deeper – this blog represents me. A little teenager who has absolutely no idea what I want to do in my life.

I regret the days where I thought I had everything planned out and I knew how much I would allocate to this or that. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care where life takes me. And I am not saying this in a depressive/manic way, but I truly do not believe that I can expect myself to fit into a specific stereotype. I’m an individual. And I am sick of secluding myself to things based on stereotypes and groups. I like movies with action. No, I do not like action movies. I like movies with action. I can watch so and so and love it. And realize that it’s part of X genre. But, when I am bored and want to watch a movie, I can’t turn to that X genre and expect to love that movie. Granted, I can’t expect to fall in love with every single one. But when I scroll down the list and realize that these are all crap – I take notice. Just because I like The Devil Wears Prada and am in love with Burn Notice does not mean that Michael is a thriller chick. Michael is a person who likes The Devil Wears Prada and Burn Notice.

And dinner is done. I’m not hungry. But I’m going to eat anyway.

Manager’s Salary

I’ve always wondered how much a manager at Burger King earns. I was never able to explore my curiosity, as for the computer is password protected and manager’s paychecks come in separate envelopes — not in the same bunch as team members. And I don’t have the balls to straight up ask a manager.

I went browsing through some paychecks and looked at Ana’s. She’s a Shift Supervisor. Right below an AM 2. I read the number, “$12.00″ and figured she was doing okay. I mean, $12 an hour for a Shift Supervisor? She’s banking at least $20,000 a year. (I figured: 35 hours a week, 52 weeks a year). And so I figured that AM2s made closer to 30-35,000, AM1s made around 35-45,000 and Restaurant Managers made 55,000+.

Jessica, who is now a mentor with me, was a manager at another Burger King some time ago. She knows the ins and outs and everything about Burger King. Including how much each manager makes. Jessica corrected me on a few cases: Shift Supervisors only make $9.00 – $9.75. And managers generally get about $500 every week. My restaurant manager was banking $736. Each AM2, AM1 and RM gets a bonus every 2 months. I knew about the bonus — they get money for saving money — but I never knew about the frequency. Based on how a bonus is calculated, it varies from location to location. Jessica said mine can expect a $600 bimonthly bonus, where as the one she used to work at usually only got $200.

What about Ana’s case? How is she making $12.00? She’s not. Jessica also corrected me on that. When I read the paycheck, it was her overtime pay. Time and a half of $9 is $12. Ana only makes $9 an hour.

Let’s calculate the pay scale. For team members and those along those lines (everyone except AMs and RMs), they are paid hourly. So, I am going to assume they work 40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year (standard full time — or 2080 hours). For managers, they are paid salary, so, I’ll only plug in AM2s and RMs salaries, as for those the only ones I know. And Jessica, when she was an AM.

Team Member ($7.15) – $14,872
Mentor ($7.65) – $15,912
Shift Supervisor ($9.00-$9.75) – $18,720 – $20,280
Assistant Manager ($500 a week) – $26,000 ($29,600, including bonus (3600])
Restaurant Manager ($736 a week) – 38,272 ($41,872, including bonus [3600])

Jessica (AM2 – $430 a week) – $22,360

However, Jessica told me she was pulling in $31,000. So, either her bonuses were really good (despite telling me they weren’t), or get they some extra benefits. Or she could have even told me $21,000 and I did not listen correctly. Either way, they are not making a lot.

How much do managers make an hour? It’s impossible to break it down, as for the year end specifics greatly vary, as does the time. My RM works half as much as the AM2s in my store. So, his hour rate will be higher.

Greivi, a shift supervisor making $9.75, also told me that she would never want to become a manager because she makes just as much doing her job, for half the hours. But, is that true? Let’s look at some numbers. Jessica logged onto the system to check the hourly rates – Ana was making $9 and Greivi was making $9.75. However, Grievi worked 44 hours that week. 40 hours get paid at the $9.75 rate and 4 hours are given time and a half. Time and a half is $14.63. She made $390 based on her full time amount and $58.52 on her overtime. That’s a paycheck of $448 for this week. If that happened every week, she’d be in the 23,000 thousand range. Over $3,000 dollars more than she would had she not worked those extra four hours a week. However, that’s not too constant. But Greivi is expecting a good paycheck this week.

In terms of comparison – she was making more than Jessica was as a manager. Even though Grievi was working 44 hours a week and Jessica was working 60-80. However, no bonus for Grievi. Nor does she get health benefits. So, there are definitely some perks to being a manager – and then there are perks of being a regular employee.

Mind you – these people are hardly educated. And Jessica was making $31,000 at 18 years old.

Let’s work on cosmetics

School is officially out. I’ve been eating out, eating candy, not watching my calories. Etc. Granted, it was a great run. But it’s catching up to me. I must have gained a few pounds because I now have a little stomach. That needs to go.

And I am sick. I got some heavy drugs yesterday that will cure my month-long virus within a few days. But the good part – I am not hungry. Ever. Except I’ve been eating to eat. So for the next three days, I am going to try to curb my appetite as much as possible. Maybe I can shed off a half a pound or two.

And my teeth are not as white as they used to be. I’ve been drinking more and more coffee and having more and more sugar. Hell, for the past week I’ve had “Candy Bowls” in my room. Every few minutes or so, I’d grab one. It’s hurting my teeth. Not only in the long run, but the short one. And I can blame the discolor from the weather — teeth never look as white as they are when there is overcast. But, that’s not going to fly with me.

I’m done with the sugar. And I am done with the eating out. I want improvements within a week.

My best is not good enough

Or so it seems.

I did okay the first two quarters in History. My test grades were strong, my homework was a little weak. I settled at 87 and 89, respectively. I asked him about AP and he told me no because I did not do my homework and blah blah blah. That’s fine. Third quarter came — determined and prepared — I landed a 95 average. That was the second best in the class. A considerable improvement, and to be honest, I felt I had deserved AP at that point. So, I asked him again. Yet again, he said no and said he’d reconsider if I stay strong the fourth quarter. And so I stayed strong. Instead of settling in second place — I knocked up my slot to first place and have a gorgeous average of 96.2. I think I clearly showed that I deserve AP and that I can handle any amount of work. Obviously he thinks different. I went up to him again today — the last day of class — and asked about AP. He asked what my average was, I told him, and then he tells me he’ll go back and review my grades and reconsider.

It was a nice way of brushing me off on the last day of school. I’ll give him that. But, he made it pretty clear that I was not getting AP and that he will not reconsider. What gets me is that countless of other kids, not only with a far lower interest in politics and the economy and a lower average, got his seal of approval. To boot, he’s the adviser of the debate club — a club about politics. A club that I have actively participated in all year. Not only do I meet the average requirement (which is only a 90), but I have clearly shown my interest in politics and the debate club.

I can ace any test, but I can’t wrap my head around this. Go figure.

Finals

I am sick. Not dying sick. Actually, maybe. I have had the worst headache for the past three days. I am sore throughout my body and I do not want to do anything. But anything does not want to do me — finals are this week.

The other day my Accounting 102 class voted on a test Monday and Tuesday of this week. Why? Good question. I thought it was the stupidest idea. Not only did I have the SATs on Saturday, but I have a 70 term history review sheet due this Wednesday. Since the SATs top accounting, I ditched studying accounting for the rest of the week and strictly studied for the SATs. I said I’ll study after the SATs on Saturday. Well, not only was I completely drained (mentally, physically and academically) — the last thing I wanted to do was cram useless accounting crap into my head. So I just said “screw it” and decided not to study. I had to work Sunday, so that was pretty much off limits as for studying goes. But I squeezed in a little after work – I did the review sheet.

I walked into accounting today and was fully prepared to wing it. I don’t care. This is an elective and I have about had it with school. No matter what I do — how well I score — this year is still getting averaged into the past three, which are low. I averaged in a “100″ for this year and there would only be an increase of 2 points for my overall GPA. I’m dealing mid to low nineties. I’m fine. The test started, there were a few I blatantly did not know. But that’s okay. I nailed at least ten of them. But the ending — Haha. That was fun. The idiots who made the test decided to throw in some equations as if we would remember them. So, I totally flopped the last ten questions. Oh well. It would be wise for me to do some more review tonight. But I’ll pass. Give me a 70.

So, I am taking these tests. Suffering from an immense about of heat stroke. And dying. Sickly dying. And the fact that no one is catering to my needs at home is just as disappointing. My brother is sick, too. Except, he’s throwing up. So unless I start barfing — I’ll get no attention and he’ll get it all because he is the “more sick” child. Which makes sense. I’m not asking for much — I’d just like a little compassion and maybe some coffee when I wake up. By the way, the only reason I survived for the first five hours of the day was because of the amount of coffee and advil I had this morning. Oh, and everyone at my school decided to spear my side — I checked Facebook this morning and everyone and their mother were talking about how they just pulled an all night. I don’t care! I need sleep! More sleep! More more more!

.. While I am on the topic of “more” – I’d like to bash the redhead at work. He’s redheaded and Spanish. He likes to brag that he is Spanish. Firecrotches can’t be taken seriously as it is. Let alone them being Spanish. He was jokingly — or at least I thought he was — about taking a trip to NYC. First of all — he called it New York City. Call it Manhattan or The City. It makes a ton more sense because you do not include the nasty boroughs that can hardly be deemed the city. But, anyway. He idolizes my fashion sense. And myself. He idolizes me. Considering I am a bit higher, socially, economically, academically — every which way. Higher than all of them. So, I agreed to go to on this “NYC Trip” with him. First of all, it reminds me of those old things they do at the community center. They have these bus trips to New York City. They are the cheesiest thing. But if you are a gold digger — they’re great. First you knit a sweater with your oldie, and then you start pushing pins in other places. But, back to firecrotch: he keeps harping me about it. As if I want to go. I don’t. The last thing I want to do is go to the city with him. He’d probably tag me along and tell everyone and I mean everyone that we are friends. “This is my friend Michael! Right, mike?” “Yes, Rob. We are ‘friends.’” And then he’ll smile like a faggot. He’s obsessed with skateboarding, too. Not only is a latino-redhead, but he skateboards. And he’s all into the ghetto sneakers. You know, the ones you see people walking around wearing with the ghetto shirts. He started to show me a pair of “shoes” he was selling someone. Firstly — never sell your old junk. Your old junk is yours. Throw it out. Do not resell it. It’s trashy and nasty. I asked, “What in God’s name can you wear this that?” “You see the blue, the purple and the white?” “Mhm..” “You wear either blue, purple or white. Or black.” “.. And, that’s fashionable?” “Yeah, son.” He uses son. He’s not only latino, redheaded, skateboarder, but a person who uses “son.” How in God’s name did I get stuck with a person like this is appalling.

Now since he loves these shoes, he wants to hit a “few areas” — one being Fight Club. I refuse to enter anything with the word ‘fight’ in it. Especially with a redheaded latino kid. That’s a definite no. The other was the Nike store. We’d probably be the only white ones in there. And I’d obviously show a great sense of discomfort. Kind of like I do when I talk to coworkers in front of normal looking customers. (Thankfully, that rarely happens; our customers are usually black, old or just a mix of the two.) And then he needs to get his mother a gift. A gift. As if the mother needs a gift. So, he proceeded to tell me: “I need to get my mom a gift by the 14th. That’s her birthday.” “Oh, really? I can’t do this week. I have too many finals to just wander in the city.” “We need to go on our NYC Trip soon.” (There he goes calling it the community center-esque trip.) “Definitely.” “Before summer. It’ll get hot.” “We’ll deal with the weather. It’s not that ba-” and he walked around. He had an hour. But it doesn’t get hot in the summer. Okay, sure. It’s brutal and disgusting. But it’s no different than walking down the streets where I live.

He comes back to me later and starts to talk about his mom again. I show a fae of “I don’t care.” But that doesn’t stop him. He begins to tell me he wrote his mom a poem and a letter. A poem? .. And a letter? Oh, really, now? Don’t go overboard. Or anything remotely excessive. Personally, as artistic as I am (kind of, okay, not really, but I like to say I am), poems are still stupid. Haiku, taiku, whatever. They’re all stupid. Write a blog to express how you fell. Don’t make it rhyme. So, I am sure this poem is half-ass and just plain bad. I wonder if he typed it, actually. If no, then there are probably some grammatical mistakes. If not a lot. Or as overly excessive as the whole ‘poem and letter’ business. And the letter is probably something along the lines of, “Thanks for being the best mom evur!” and more hogwash. And then he “confides” in me, “She raised me on her own. I owe this to her.” You owe what to her? First of all, kiddo — your mother owes you. She is biologically, and legally, obligated to supply you with food, shelter and some more crap. Most of those pertain to the latter, but the former is more along the lines of your material goods. Like your Minivan and your Nike shoes. If I was to ever give my mom a letter, a poem and then a gift. One — she’d take me to the nearest drug testing facility. In the car, she’d probably text all her friends saying that she is becoming the mother the e-mail she got yesterday said because she didn’t forward it to 15 people. Two — check to see if there was any resale, investment or even regift value of the gift. She’d probably read the poem and tell me that it was “nice” and she’ll keep it “in her office.” Meaning: she’ll go to work and shove it in her office and then complain that she didn’t get anything good for her birthday. She does that for every holiday. My dad bought her this gorgeous ring for Christmas. The next morning, she wailed on the couch saying that it “wasn’t enough.” Or that it wasn’t “big enough.” So my dad went to upgrade it. Two sizes up. Just to make her “content.”

There are some pretty stark differences between our mothers, and even us. And I am glad. If I was singlepaycheckly raised by only my mother — I’d consider suicide. And SUNY Schools. And maybe some Nike shoes. Or, or — the best yet — skateboarding. In time, I plan to study millions of kids and see what makes them what they are. And I wonder if his mom ever thinks – “Ugh. If only I kept my legs shut. I wouldn’t have head to deal with this red-headed son of a bitch.” If I was in her shoes, I totally would.

Ketchup and Angry Sauce

My mother had to go a Pampered Chef party at 11. I had to be at work at 11. Normally I am against dropping me over 30 minutes early, but I support my mom and her desire and need for corn on the cob butters (no, you do not use a traditional butter knife and butter, you place it in this thing and the thing does its thing and butters your corn) or some new chicken beaters. So, I had 30 minutes to kill. Of course, I texted everybody and anybody. Given that it was a Sunday, I knew I could keep the conversation going for more than 30 minutes, as for Burger King is dead on Sunday before 12:30. Wrong. Ten minutes in, Susan comes running to me ranting and raging about how Emily took her phone. That’s the new thing — phone taking. If they catch you texting, they take your phone and put it in the safe. I responded with one word answers to let the conversation die down. Emily was in a bad mood and I refuse to fight with someone over a phone. I do not trust anyone with my Blackberry, and my Blackberry is not sitting in a safe for eight hours.

I went in with an open mind. I wasn’t going to go in with a grudge against the world — despite my hate for Burger King. I greeted everyone, “Good morning, how are you?” – etc. I am nice. I go to the kitchen and put on some gloves. Adrianna took over the main board, so I resumed duties on broiler. Normally, I’d like to think that my nine months of expertise has earned me a rank higher than “BSer” (Broiler Steamer), but, at this point, I’d be happy to sit there and lodge meat into a flaming pit of doom. So be it. Ten, fifteen minutes in, Susan gets thrown on break and Adrianna asks me to empty a ketchup bottle into the dinning room area ketchup machine (you know, the one you pump and fill those little cups with. Yeah, those. In fact, we use those same cups to take Sprite shots.), I tell her that’s the stupidest idea ever and I’ll just throw the ketchup out. She refutes and tells me that I waste too much food. So, what. It’s just money and we make thousands a day. And besides, it’s not like I get a cut of the “Savings Bonus.” The managers’ bonus comes out of this fund. Basically, the less money the individual chain has to spend in ratio to its profits, the more money the managers get. So, they like to use every tomato and use 80% of fries — their theory is: $2 a week per item adds up. That’s $102 a year. Now multiply that by 25 profits. Sure, it saves the money. But when you look at the little $102 figure next to the ~1,500,000 in yearly profits, you shake your head and realize that it’s nothing. But albeit — I’ll use every tomato, save every ounce of ketchup and not give a customer the right amount of fries. (Oh, and you should have saw how they reacted when a bag of chicken fries “ript at the seems” [how they wrote it on the report] as I was carrying it out of the freezer. I was tempted to call the ambulance — Emily was having heart palpation and Issa was having seizures on the floor. However, the cost would have been too high for the company, so I just grabbed Issa’s tongue and told Emily everything will be all right.) Now, since Susan and I are good friends, I figured, as I was squirting the bottled ketchup in the giant steel bowl of ketchup, I will talk to her. She was sitting in the glass part of the dinning room. Basically, it looks onto the road. All incoming patrons (or fat asses, either or) and cars driving by can look in and see. I unscrew the cap and squirt it in. Believe it or not, it’s interesting. It creates a little hole and then files it up, and then overflows.. And then repeats. It’s odd how that works, but it does. (Lesson #1 in Ketchupology.) And Emily just finished admiring the new flower bed (read: overgrown swamp plants) we put at the corner of the lot, below our sign. Emily and Susan are friends, so Emily waves to Susan, Susan waves back. I start to wave. Her face literally went from I-just-got-laid happy to you-are-so-lucky-I-am-not-your-mother. She would have kicked my ass. So, she walks in — which was agonizing, since I was anticipating her screaming. Which ultimately sucks. The screaming, I can deal with. But I just can’t stand waiting for the screaming. It’s like stealing money from a company, at first, you don’t mind it. You love it. But you hate the part where the accounting sector of the business picks up that you spent $5,000 on “Misc. Expenses,” linking a check to a whore house. She politely talks to me — remember, we are in the middle of the glass case and I have a bottle of ketchup in my hand. And, like me, not the best one with confrontation, as for I tend to laugh and not give a crap. She asks me what I am doing. “Doing what Adri wanted me to do. I thought it was stupid, too-” (mind: Well, obviously, you see what I am doing. I’m talking to Susan while doing some heinous and ridiculous task.) She didn’t want to hear it: “Everyone can see you.” Well, duh, Emily. Of course everyone can see me. Just like they can view the whole kitchen, perfectly, when they wait for the food. And, so, what — they’ve seen ketchup before, and due to some recent studies and outbreaks (think the whole Burger King bath tub incident, or even the Pizza Hot homoerotic video), they imagine scandals on a ten times worse scale. But yet, they continue to order our Triple Whoppers with Cheeses.

Emily was mad at me for the rest of the morning. On a few attempts, she personally reminded me to “Behave myself.” I was going to mention how ridiculous it is to have to tell me that, as for I am 16 years old. But then I thought of how that would backfire in my face, because anyone can think of a juvenile and witty response that leaves my head hanging in shame. I smirk and tell her, “Of course.” I kept my phone in my pocket — despite my urge to Twitter about how fat and annoying she is — for the remainder of her time being there. And I was at Nicole’s beck and call. I did some things I would normally never do — like actually doing a Cook Out, changing the trash sans gloves, or washing the dishes. She made it my #1 task to make sure that all dishes were done. And thus I did so. Before leaving, I made sure that my board had an ample supply of meat, and that all surrounding kitchen areas — mainly the dishes and the broiler area — were spotless. Visually, it was gorgeous. Had I had a few more minutes, I would have pulled out the Dazzle and made everything shine.

It’s really amazing how much work (read: crap) goes into keeping Burger King the way it is. The sad part is — it’s still on the bottom of the scale in terms of class. I could only imagine the amount of buttache and work a real classy place requires. I wonder if they have annoying managers, too. They probably don’t, given that the employees are usually not ex-convicts and the place doesn’t need to be ran like a concentration camp. But, I’ll always wonder.

Diet Coke and Rum

I wish I had some right now. I wouldn’t mind taking the edge off. It’s been a hectic week at school and at work. My grades are fluctuating and I am growing tired of the crap at work. I’m left to make a few big decisions, but I’m limited as to what I can do. Or what I should do. Or what is in my best interest. I’m that person in an abusive relationship who gets beat repeatedly over the head with a shovel — and still returns.

School was bumpy in the beginning of the week. I found out my grade grade — 88.5. I had a 99 average until the Navigation and Surveying quiz. I missed part of a question and completely bombed the other. I scored a 60, in the end. Dropped my average a whopping 10.5 points. I then scored an 89 on a Polar Coordinates quiz. That’s okay, but really didn’t raise my grade. We had to graph some trig functions on the Polar Coordinate graph thing, and I am pretty sure I landed a 100 — which will bring my grade up to a 89.5, or a 90. That’s okay. English is also a 90 — I don’t know how, but it is. I am tempted to ask for some extra credit, but it’s mainly for those kids who have genuine 40s. And I’d look and feel greedy. History, however, is going great. I have the highest average in the class — 96.2. I’m winning by .3 and plan to widen that. The best part is — I’m going against some true geniuses who are ranked top 50. Hell, the number ten girl has a lower average than me! My other classes are fine.

Work has been interesting. I have taken a backseat and just do what is required. I leave early when possible. There are plenty more important things to do, like homework or even just relaxing. And when the kitchen is over 90 degrees and there is absolutely no work for me.. I’d rather be doing the more “important” things. Emily has completely fallen for Mario. Mario is an illegal immigrant from some country that I can’t be arsed to remember or even care of. He’s a total pig. He obsessively stares at woman and makes raunchy comments and expects everyone, including the managers, to do things for him. He’ll simply stay in the kitchen and be perfectly fine with Nicole or Emily (managers) getting fries for him. He tries to be that Alpha Male, but there is just no way. He doesn’t have the intellect or dominance. Not to sound too egotistical, but I think he’s jealous of my intelligence and skill. I’m the fastest in the kitchen and am friends with everyone — not to mention, very smart. He’s the opposite. But, anyway, Emily likes to have these little Latino Pets, as I like to call them. Before it was Jose, who spoke little English and was straight out of Mexico. Unfortunately, when I was asking Dalia, someone who is from the same town as Jose, where she was from and I drew a retarded looking shoe to represent Mexico, Jose got mad and redrew it with amazing precision. Ever since then, he kind of hated me. Which is fine. He was fired three weeks after. Jose probably should have never been on Drive Thru, considering his lack of English skills, but Emily wanted him there. Same with Mario. She is going to put him on Drive Thru and eventually get him working up front — which is the equivalent to a yard slave going into the house; they’re more pampered and are hierarchically higher. Mario knows less English than Jose. Which is sad. “Our odor comb to devon dirty dents, firsed widow, peas.” How exactly that is going to help Burger King .. beats me. I got a little annoyed, considering I know how to work Drive Thru, Front Counter and just about everything in Burger King, but Emily prefers to keep me in the kitchen. Issa and Nicole want me out — but Emily wants me in. It’s tough.

The Mexicans were being complete idiots to me today. Which is normal, considering, whenever I leave early, they get their uncleaned panties in a bunch and don’t talk to me for a few hours the next day. But, they don’t really, I use a secret weapon. Instead of being a typical asshole back to them — which I would love to do, but I have too much heart and feel bad after — I kill them with kindness. “Give me fries.” “Here you go, Theresa! Hold on, I’ll put them in for you!” They try so hard to not say thank you, it’s awesome. But after twenty minutes of that crap today, I walked into Issa’s office and asked for a minute. He frantically put down his papers and everything — which, I’d assume he thought I was quitting (which wouldn’t be a bad idea..) and said, “I have two.” Not sure if that was just nervous energy coming out or the willingness to dedicate more time than I had asked for to cater to my needs. But I’m probably over-analyzing his words, considering a man of that low intelligence couldn’t conjure up anything nearly as deep. Alas, I told him, point blank, that I wanted to do something new — like the front counter. Unlike him, I watch how I word things. I did not use the word ‘try’ because that would imply that I want to learn. I want to ‘do’ implies that I know what I am doing and I would like to do it. Hopefully he picked up on that. We talk some more — I tell him that I have a great personality and do not feel that I am able to really express myself in the kitchen. I’m a talker (he agreed; he called me a ‘gabber’) and that I would much rather spend my time talking to a customer and putting a smile on their face rather than minding myself in the kitchen where I have to listen to Spanish be blurted back and forth by the Mexicans. I don’t speak Spanish. I have no desire to learn. I want to speak English — my native, and only, language. And if they are going to be putting me in for six days a week, I want to be doing something that I enjoy — like front counter. I don’t like the kitchen. He had a wary look on his face, which is what I expected. He had just hired a few more people for the front counter and had no one to replace me in the kitchen. But he said he’d trade my schedule for another person. I thanked him and returned to the kitchen.

Emily comes in a few minutes later. She walks into the office and they obviously talk. Emily does not want me up there. So I knew it was not going to go well. Issa called me back in an hour or so later, when he was working on the schedule. I first glanced, I noticed my name was in the Kitchen section with a little K next to it. K means Kitchen, FC means Front Counter, DT means Drive Thru. According to that day, I was working in the Kitchen. Plain and simple. But he goes on to tell me that I am going to switch with Ray and work up front. A few thoughts rushed into my head: 1) Ray is my friend. I know he does not like the kitchen. And because I have a heart, I could not force someone into a place for my benefit. Especially when I am aware that they hate it. 2) Whoever is the manager that day will not know what to do. And ten bucks that manager is Emily, so it’s a lose-lose. Hopefully he didn’t catch my initial expression or even the rolling of my eyes, but I said thanks. When I left the office, I said thanks again. I showed him that I “cared” and “appreciated” his work. I knew what was up his sleeve the whole time. I’m not going up front and I know he was just bringing me in there to show that he is doing something. So, I figured, hey, if he wants to play some games — and considering I am at wit’s end with this place, I’ll try to bring down his feelings and make him feel like a total dick for “crushing” a sixteen year old.

However, I am just going to go in tomorrow and tell him to forget about what I said yesterday. I am willing to work in the kitchen. I’m not going to pull Ray in the kitchen for my benefit. That’s not right. The kitchen is not that bad.. but I am not staying there forever. I’m going to look around for another job. One that actually deals with the public and preferably one that has AC. And the next time that I ever pull Issa aside for a one minuter — he’s going to actually use his whole two minutes to take his best shot at persuading me to stay. And it’s going to take a lot more than a promotion, pay raise and even the repair of the damn AC.

I’m sick of Burger King.

Prison Break

The two-hour series finale for Prison Break airs tonight. I can’t wait. Well, no, I can. But not in a traditional waiting way. I don’t want to see the series come to an end. I’ve loved it since day one and have watched almost every episode at least twice — in some cases, especially within Season 1 and 2, more than 3 times a piece. The show was suppose to run 5 or 6 season – and everything was going to go well. They are in the 4th and calling it quits.

Of course — the series has been going downhill at a pretty fast rate. Season 3 was a complete bore – it was too monotonous and static. The sand prison in the middle of Mexico was not interesting. I hated it, actually. Nothing really evolved out of it, aside from the obvious tie in to The Company. The goal for the longest time was to find The Company, and then shortly after, it was to take it down. Season 4 did a good job of reviving some things – killed off loose ends and mainly focused on taking down the company.

I remember Sarah relating The Company to The Odyssey. Odysseus had to lose six men to take down Scylla. Scylla was a monster in the epic and is the name of The Company’s secret project. It was all too ironic that seven men were trying to take Scylla and The Company down. I figured that six — all of them excluding Michael — would die. Considering that his brother (who we found out to not actually be his brother, and something like a Harry Potter spin) and his lover were in the bunch, there were going to be some emotional and hard times. Sounded awesome. However, the plot went wonky – which I assume is because the show was up for grabs of being contracted again and put into a fifth season.

Now the season and the series are going to die prematurely. But let’s hope that in the last episode that all loose ends are tied, neatly, and maybe I can put some good closure to the show. It’ll be the very first show I’ve watched since Pilot.

Indie

I caught myself feeling overly ‘independent’ today. I forgot to do some homework — first time all year — and I didn’t study for my exams. My b. But it all turned out well. Actually, no. Accounting was a disaster. Not only did I not study, but I forgot to bring a calculator, so I had to do everything long hand. But aside from that — I felt good. I felt like a human who did not need to be glued to books or on some drug to increase the likeliness to absorb and retain information. A sponge, rather? Any which way, to top off the evening, I decided to slice my kiwi a different way this time. I usually cut it in a traditional fashion and do perpendicular slices to make it easy to eat. This time, ha, I said good-bye to tradition and sliced them diagonally. That’s independence.

A movie trailer came on when I was watching Prison Break (last episode is tomorrow, I can’t believe it!) – the movie looked interesting. Okay, no. It looked amazing. Really and truly amazing. It’s called 500 Days of Summer. The music, the film, the color, the everything – it’s great. It is not coming to theaters until July, at least. I read somewhere that it was coming in September, but that’s not summer. The poster says July 24th. Wikipedia says July 17th. But I think we learned about how trusty Wikipedia is on that research paper in 9th grade.. But, alas, the movie looks awesome and reminds me of this awesome couple that I stalk casually look at on Facebook. Now they are indie. And that shot is not only really artsy and cool, but I would love to know how and where in Grand Central. I mean, there are some desolate areas, but still, if I was walking, I’d be tempted to punt the camera out the 42nd street entrance.

Any which way I look at it – there is nothing independent about these kids. They are simply bringing back older and more unique styles. With their Urban Outfitters Polaroid cameras, shitty lighting and a rummage through their attic picking out their dad’s old shirts and gear – you can easily send them back 40 years, throw them on Columbia Campus and they’d fit it in.

Hopefully my kids never have the urge to dress like how I did. Granted, I’m not independent – I like looking classy and nice. But it’d still be odd. And remind me to never cut a kiwi like this again.

Time and time again

I think of awesome ideas for blog posts. I get all excited to come home and start the research to write them – find a picture, sharpen my facts, learn some new things, etc. But the minute I enter my room, everything changes. No longer do I have the urge to write a blog. No longer do I have the urge to do anything. I just want to sit there and be dull.

If there is anything that I learned from self-studying Microeconomics for a few chapters was Opportunity Cost. The monetary or even figurative cost of doing something else. Say you have three free hours on a Thursday afternoon. You can, a) babysit your neighbor’s child for $10 an hour or b) study for the big Biology test tomorrow. If you babysit the brat, you lose valuable studying time. If you decide to study, you lose $30. Same principle applies in my case. I can a) write in my blog for an hour or two, b) surf the web for something fun and interesting, or c) studying for a test or the SATs. I think in terms of how much studying for the SATs I could get done in the time allocated. I have three hours — write a good post for a static blog or study for the SATs, which are a month away and are in dire need of attention? Time after time, I pick the latter.

And off I go to study.