eight hours and counting...

I'm going to cry tomorrow. Probably around 10.30-ish. I'm going to miss the yahoos terribly. But I promised them I'd visit, so visit I shall.

I hate leaving a job I've learned to love. It's a love-hate thing, my relationship with my job. It's like in The Notebook when Noah says to Allie, "So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you." (It was on TV when I got home from work, almost just at that spot. Hello coincidence? Thanks for kicking me in the face yet again...) Love is a choice. I love my job, and I'm going to miss it so much; but not, at the same time. It's weird. It's the people, not the job. I hate the job. I'm a robot on an assembly line; no more, no less. Just another cog in the great machine Montana's. I love the people. I'll miss the people.

I'm going to get pied tomorrow night. I know it. Meh, life goes on. It just means I'm loved.

But tonight was the first time in a long time I thought I'd walk out before my shift was over. It was stupid, really. But I still feel that I reacted in the best fashion in regards to the situation. Karissa was yelling at everyone on my side of the line (read: amanda and me), and would wait about a grand total of .25 seconds before asking for the same thing for the fourth time. Every time she would yell (louder, I might add), I would answer with a 'give me a sec,' or a 'yep, got that,' or 'let me check.' Finally, I just snapped and screamed (without actually screaming screaming. The people in the restaurant probably heard me, but that was the least of my worries) that I was getting on it right now. I swear eveything in the kitchen stopped for a second, and when you're dealing with a super fast-paced environment, a second seems like forever sometimes. This was one of those times, to say the least. Amanda and I do not deserve to be yelled at like we don't know what we're doing...by a sixteen year old with an overactive ego. When I said that to Amanda, this look of utter defeat crossed her face and it made me really sad to come to the realization that there are three people who run the kitchen, and I've just been shoved out of that elite group by letting it slip that tomorrow's my last day. The three people are Mark the Kitchen Manager (it is actually his kitchen like he says all the time), Eric the boy who started in dish when he was 14 and fought his way to seniority after 3 long years, and Karissa the sixteen year old girl with the ego problem.

Can I take this moment to say that I'm absolutely in love with the Autosave function on Livejournal? Well, I just did. So there.

Anywho, I spent the rest of my shift in the back, helping John clean. It's my least-favourite job there, but it kept me off the line and away from Karissa. So I spent the evening with the one guy who is actually able to touch/smack my butt without getting his ass kicked. He's the most non-violent person I know (besides me), and I know that I can trust him to not do anything to make me even want to kick his ass. And now that I'm done venting/spilling my guts, I shall sleep, wake and face my very last day at Montana's. It's all so final, growing up. Ow. That sound just now was my feeling getting squished. Ow.