fuck this job.com

This is it. The countdown to freedom from the chains of cashier... dom... has finally reached zero. This one goes out to everyone who has read and appreciated my work on this blog. This will probably be my last post about cashiering, and I want to go out in the same fashion by which I came in... by offering you a glimpse into that mystifyingly evasive realm that is "shit that I don't need from you."

1. I don't need to know why you've chosen specific items over other specific items. In the great international debate that is "flat vs. ridged," I remain firmly neutral. Whichever one goes better with onion dip is really inconsequential to me, as they both go great with a fresh, creamy helping of "fuck off and never return," which is the same bitter substance that your hosts serve to you at dinner parties to which you weren't invited. I'm not wasting brain space to keep track of your purchasing habits, and I'm not going to try to sway your decision one way or another, as the only way in which I care to see you sway is from a tall tree beside an overturned chair.

2. I'm genuinely not concerned with the prices of items in other stores. In fact, I'm really not too concerned with the prices of items in this store. Due to these freshly disclosed circumstances, you may already have extrapolated the reason for which you recieve a blank stare in response to your criticisms on our relative lack of "savings" as compared to those unconscionable quanities of the same to be discovered at Wal-Mart. You've just spent about four-hundred percent of your brain power formulating a statement which was instantly disqualified as unimportant and written off as baseless propaganda.

3. I don't need hints dropped on me regarding any items you've neglected to obtain. "Ohhh, I forgot cream cheese." "Ohh, I wish I had picked up some tomatoes." Either go get it, ask me to get it, or get the fuck over not having it. You don't hear me lamenting over my lack of a shotgun and an alibi, do you?

4. The last thing that I will ever need is to interface with you on any sort of personal level. Questions such as "What time are ya gettin' off tonight?" don't even begin to ingratiate yourself with me. I'll be "getting off" tonight while I'm in the throes of mad, passionate rage holding a ball-peen hammer in one hand and a teddy bear with a rough sketch of your face taped to its head in the other.

And that's that. All that's left is a shout-out to Panshea and the soldiers who serve alongside him. You rule, bro. You all rule.