Click images for desktop size: "The Blue Marble" by Unknown I don't know if this will work.
Typing with one finger on my iPod while I wait to be disturbed.
Might be interesting or maybe just a mess.
I surely hate my job. For the first time I can see that gambling is an addiction and maybe the worst of the non-substance abuse ones. If the gamblers weren't, for the most part, so rude and self obsessed it would be easy to pity them.
Pity is all I could muster. I try to but I can't come close to understanding their compulsion.
Like, I can comprehend the crack whore peddling sex to fund her addiction but I draw a blank in empathy and comprehension when I watch the female gamblers offer their bodies up the same way.
Sometimes it bugs me. Like the women on ADC (Aid to Dependent Children) spending their month's worth of money and then trying to sell the kid's food stamps. It bugs me as if it were me stealing the food and the clothes from their babies. When I run through the stuff to get to where I can live with it the only thing I have is pity. Pity is a pretty nasty emotion when it's people or dogs you're thinking or feeling about.
I remind myself it's just a job. I mop and sweep; take out the trash; take their money and put it in the till. Sometimes They win and I pay them. I watch them gamble the rent money to win the money for the light bill.
It feels pretty tawdry if you think about it. I try not to think at all.
I'm always so tired and needing sleep, that helps a lot for not thinking.
The people here think of me as the guy who cleans. Mop and bucket. Not souls or conscious.