My mortal enemy is an electronic box.
Occasionally the degree of beauty a place holds has a direct correlation with the number of jobs you need to stay there. In Humboldt County the average number is 3 and mine were, until two months ago, all in the creative field.
I have a cute little part time job that requires the use of a…………………………cash register. Or as I call it, the panic machine.
When I got that work permit at 15 to pour low-cal yogurt they had a cash register too. I am familiar with the “idea”. But there is something about someone else’s money and a sequence of buttons that throws me into a freeze. In the beginning only when things got complicated, and now, only when there’s a really long line or I’m checking out anyone I work with. 20 year old coworkers exchange eye rolls at my expense and my register ineptitude has become the running joke, which makes it about a million times worse. It feels like that season of 5th grade soccer where I choked on every goal as I dribbled to the goal thinking, don’t choke you fucking idiot, don’t choke. I had a filthy mouth for a 10 yearold.
Then I wake up at 2 am thinking “What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can I not press a sequence of buttons in the correct fashion in front of someone who thinks I’m going to fail? Why have I built up a large grey electronic box into my mortal enemy, testing my IQ with every transaction? Why is my pillow so hard and flat?”
Then, a calming and decisive voice in my head says “write it out, bitch.” And I do. Then it says “Hey, lets check out youporn and get back to sleep the fun way.”
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