I can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. It’s horrible. This morning, I found out that an old co-worker’s husband – or baby daddy, I think – was one of the people killed. They had a little boy together. It’s so sad.
Can sadness be measured, though? I ask, because I feel like I’m not as emotional about the shooting as some of my friends have been. Like Connor, who was apparently having meltdowns at work today. Have I been desensitized? I feel guilty for not feeling as bad. I care. I do. It’s just that I grieve in my own way.
Once at The Clubhouse, I did my thing from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. I actually had tasks to work on today, which made my shift a lot more interesting. Thus far, my job just seems like I’m working through a lot of simple projects. As in, they are so simple that it makes you wonder why certain projects or procedures weren’t implemented five years ago. Or even when the club opened! You don’t operate a private club without formal guidelines on how to steward new members, or analyze the data from current ones. It’s idiotic. Now, it’s up to me to come up with those guidelines.
As I was walking through the club to clock out at the end of the day, I got called into the General Manager’s office. Meet Stella. A small, yet scrappy woman who is as hot and cold as a Toronto summer. I haven’t been able to figure Stella out, but she rubs me the wrong way. The woman scares me.
Stella called me into her office, because she wanted to give me the uniform for when I work my front desk shifts. Oh, fuck no.
“Do I have to wear this?” I asked.
“Yes,” Stella barked at me without missing a beat.
I didn’t push the issue.
Stella reached into a wrinkled Zara shopping bag and pulled out a navy short-sleeved button-down shirt and a pair of brown khaki pants – an unsightly combo at best. Here’s the kicker, though. Stella then told me that the ensemble would cost me $100, all of which would be deducted directly from my paycheck. Um, fuck no! No on so many levels. I’m not wearing a uniform, I’m not paying for a uniform, and I don’t wear fucking khaki pants. I managed to narrowly escape Stella’s wrath by telling her that I would look into buying the items online to save money.
Walking home from The Clubhouse – all the way, I might add – I grew more and more angry about the whole uniform debacle. I think I’m going to take a stand on the issue. I was not told about uniforms when I signed on for this job. It sounds silly, but that type of self-expression is very important to me, especially after coming from a place like The Store, where there was a literal book on how to wear the uniform. Considering more than half of my hours are spent in a back-end office role, and I’m receiving shit pay without benefits, I think The Clubhouse can budge on this one.
I won’t lie. The issue is partly about the $100. However, I also just don’t want to wear the outfit. I’m wondering if I’m being a shit about the whole thing, or if it’s actually an issue worth fighting for. I think it is. If I have to talk to the club president, then I will. The goddamn president, I tell you! Fuck no to brown pants and brown shoes. Hell no, we won’t go!
After getting home to the Witch Cave, I collapsed on my bed and did nothing for an hour. When that was over, I dragged my ass out from under my duvet, made my bed, and cleaned up my apartment. I also got high, did the dishes, and prepped my lunch for tomorrow. That productivity didn’t last long, though. The rest of my evening was spent eating everything in sight while watching old Chelsea Lately clips on YouTube. Goddamn it.
Why did I bring this weed home with me from Casa Z? I keep falling into the same trap. As a result, this journal writing is becoming a fucking nightmare. All I can think about as I type out another rant on my smoking habits is how many fucking times I have written the exact same thing before. Get a fucking grip, girl!
Before bed, I talked to some boys on Grindr. Now, it’s time to pass out.
RX liked an old Instagram post of mine today, despite last night’s hideous iMessage exchange. What a fuckhead. The kid’s got some balls. There are so many things that I want to yell at him. Why, RX? Why!
Goodnight xo
I’ve always appreciated this quote from Mariah Carey. Given the recent tragedy at Pulse, I felt that it was very fitting.