Drunken Sailor

Dear place of employment,

The reason I'm staggering like a drunken sailor has nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol.  It has to do with exhaustion!

Seriously, people!  Now, they've upped our weekend hours.

Instead of 10 on Friday and 8 on Saturday, we're working 12 on Friday and 10 on Saturday.  Boss Man said he tried to argue them out of it, telling them they were wearing us out, but they don't care.  They aren't the ones who'll have to come in.  No, they'll be at home in their air conditioning with their feet propped up in front of the TV.  It's just us peons who have to work those long, long hours.

By the way, we lost another HR person this month.  Our turnover rate in the HR department, on a per capita basis, is just as high as it is on the factory floor.  That's how you know you have problems in your hierarchy.

Me, I'm just thinking, the more hours I work, the faster I get that credit card paid off and get some savings built up, and the sooner I get my hiney out of that hell hole.  And that's not what I really wanted to say, but I've had to repent too many unwholesome words here lately as it is.

So, I walked into work this morning, and saw a box with a somewhat cryptic message on it.

If you know me at all, you know exactly what I had to do.

The message was repeated on the inside,

so, naturally, I had to touch it repeatedly.

Because that's just who I am.

By the way, that's not a sweater I'm wearing.  Those are arm guards we are required to wear.  They are hot and itchy, and frankly, I'd rather risk getting burned than have to be miserable in those things for 12 hours at a time.