Rantin' Rampage

I just want to get some frustrations out. You can call this complaining, arrogance, impatience, a little gossipy, and other various terrible things and you'd be right. 

But as of this moment, I don't care very much. Another terrible thing.

I worked 3 shifts today. I was in a very small store, the same store I'm in almost every day, from 10:30am-6pm, and again from 9pm-1:15am. That's a lot. The morning/afternoon shifts went by fine. I worked with mostly friends and we got mostly stuff done. Tonight though...ugh. 

It felt like a wake-up call about my own generation and it makes me glad I'm not in school anymore.

Practical Common Sense isn't so common anymore. One of my coworkers was having what seemed to be legitimate mental struggles in trying to figure out how and why we refill the syrup bottles every night. 
Why? So the morning shift has one less thing to worry about. And no, it's not unsanitary if you do it the right way (meaning: hey, the syrup comes out the bottom of the bottle, so refill it from the top and it naturally cycles through in an appropriate amount of time. she's been filling them from the bottom this whole time, turning the bottles upside down.)
How? In the top. But the syrup is so thick and has been refrigerated!! How do i get it from the can to the bottle? Hmm..this is difficult, I know...let's see. We work..where again? 3 Spoons? ohh...duh. Think, woman! 

The other coworker: hey, we're kinda busy. one of us is working the register, one is cutting fruit to replenish our rapidly diminishing supply of strawberries...i know! i should make waffle cone triangles, and forsake my responsibility to keep the toppings clean, yeah! because those are in high demand and are definitely NOT the distinct responsibility of the morning shift. (last sentence, sarcastic to me, a legitimate thought to him)

Maybe I was just tired and that made me frustrated. Maybe I just know that every time that one guy closes things get half-way done. Maybe I just know that the girl is like too many girls I knew at Liberty. Maybe tonight was a reminder of just how insanely broken I am.


Especially because I come home to a very excited puppy when I am not excited in the least. And she wants to play while I want to cry and curl up and either write-to-express-it or read-to-escape-it. And she greatly dislikes her crate, so she spends 20 minutes barking and whining at 2am before she tires herself out/realizes I'm not going to take her out, all while my roommate yells at her about 10 minutes into the barking session. This does the opposite of quiet the dog down; it gives her hope that someone is coming. It's called self-soothing for a reason. 


You can stop reading if you want, but I'm not going to stop writing just yet. Another couple paragraphs should do it, though. Persevere!


I think the real source of my inner-tantrum is my impatience with God. I feel like I've been waiting for a long time for something, anything to happen in my life. I've sought out opportunities. I've taken what opportunities have come my way. I have failed in righteousness and returned to grace. And still...I'm here, in the same place. 


Two part-time jobs. One of which is mind-numbing, and irksome. Tiny house which doesn't even feel like mine enough for real home-ness. Dog that I love but is being quite the brat lately. Emotions leaving me anxious and disappointed, again and again, despite my highest of hopes. Hopes that I really thought were based on reality this time. Not seeing my dearest of friends often enough to encourage the sharing of all such things. 


I want so badly to live a real life. This is not the life I want. I want to work with middle school students. I want to help men become men and women become women. I want to have enough room to dance. And yes, to be quite honest, I want the freedom to love a man and to be loved in return; I want to be someone's helper, someone's Eve. I want Jesus to tell me where to go, what to do next and now. 


But I'm still....freakin'....waiting....


It's supposed to be sunny tomorrow. That's good.