UGH I HATE MY JOB.

The cleaning man who is nearly a thousand years old and very congenial but who I have of course soured to is very keen on saying "Should I open er up?" as he leaves in the morning after his weekly cleaning routine, meaning he is exiting through the front door and is kindly offering to unlock the outer door on my behalf; the only problem being that I am or Sarah is on occasion (most of the time) still setting out money in register trays or fixing pieces of paper in their proper places or god forbid mixing granules of sugar into a sour cup of coffee, and of course my weak protestations to this effect do not deter Cleaning Man Sam, he is just so excited at the prospect of unlocking a door on his very own and being The Guy Who Opens The Store that no gail forcewind will prevent him putting key to lock. I just want to punch that guy in the face. Go out the back door, old man.

And then, new contemplative paragraph, I feel bad being an asshole to the aged cleaning man, his adjective and noun being both factors in that feeling though perhaps moreso the noun as I don't want to be classist, sniffing at the actions of the help so to speak, but in truth we are all in some social subservient service work position here, and also sometimes you just don't like somebody regardless of their social position, so it is.

And I was and perhaps still am a hair's breadth from sending an annoyed and most likely annoying email to be upper-boss to the effect of "Make him stop doing that!!!!" but after all that is unwise I guess because didn't Upper Boss say a while back that part of this job is managing people, duh, and I oughta not be so uncomfortable with that? Didn't?

Ugh. If I were Geena Davis I would tell this job to suck my dick.