All the girls who worked there wore six pounds of make-up every day to cover up the fact that they were really mean. They would stand near me and talk loudly about what they had done the night before. I assume I was supposed to feel bad they hadn’t invited me. Like I really wanted to get drunk with them in sports bars after work.

All of my work-related fantasies involved dismembering my co-workers. There was this one girl I’ll call Megan (because that was her name). I really wanted to rip her eyeballs out. I really wish I could remember her last name so I could tell you to look up her phone number and make obscene phone calls to her house . . . but I digress.

After working there for six months, I came home for lunch one day and there were about ten people in my living room having fun and I decided I just could not go back. So I asked them to tell me how I should call in. I wanted to say I was having a miscarriage but Amelia wouldn’t let me. (I do not recall this. I’ve miscarried and reaped the benefits, and I do not believe any friend of mine should have to endure the unpleasant part. --Ed) Other people suggested stories. Like that I had died in a car accident on the way home. Then we hit on the grand idea that I should tell the truth.

I called my manager. "Hi, uhm, this is Deborah. I thought I should call and tell you that I hate working in your store, and everyone there is really mean, so I'm not coming back."
   "What?"
   "I said, I quit."
   "(stutter, stutter) Do you want to come in and talk about it?"
   "No."
   "Well that is extremely unprofessional!"
   "Oh yeah, being a cashier is SO professional. Six bucks an hour is SUCH a professional wage. Spare me please."