Do I Really Need a Job?

I don't want to get another job.

As a matter of fact, I'd be perfectly content with going back to my initial plan of becoming a hobo. Or maybe a cat lady.



I mean, how can I go back to a regular ho-hum mall job after working at Howl-O-Scream? Just remembering my last regular job gives me shivers.

You would think that Victoria's Secret would be a great place to work.

Think again, my friends. Think again.



Sure, getting discounts and free bras sounds great. But what price do you really pay?

"Kristin, measure this ridiculously fat lady's boobs because I'm too lazy."

"Kristin, sorry I'm a half an hour late this morning. I know I told you to be here at 8:30 a.m., but I just HAD to buy donuts."

"Kristin, don't stand with your arms crossed. It's not inviting."

"Kristin, organize every panty in the entire store while I sit here on my fat ass and eat."

"Kristin, sell a credit card to that lady over there and I'll buy you a cookie."

What? Do I look like a fucking monkey? Do it yourself, bitch.

I became one of those annoying people. You know, the ones that bombard you the first second you walk through the door of the store. The ones that try to sell you something you don't want. I was forced to sell 2 credit cards every 4 hour shift I worked.

But measuring people's breasts sounds fun, right?

Maybe to a guy. Or a lesbian. But the stories I can tell would be sure to steer both away from the female race.

"I'm sorry ma'am. We don't carry 82 FFF at Victoria's Secret."



Once, this old lady tried to get me touch her underwear.
WHILE SHE WAS STILL WEARING THEM.

Another time, I fitted this lady for a bra who was rather strange looking.
Her boobs, I mean. They just looked off. She told me that she shouldn't be the size I had fitted her for because she had just gotten a boob job.
That explained it. It was a terrible boob job.
"Are you wearing a pushup bra?" I asked her.
"I'm not wearing any bra," she stated with a creepy smile.

Oh. my. god.

So not worth the measely $7 an hour.

I had to get the hell out of that place. In the end, they only gave me about 6 hours a week because they kept hiring new sluts to work the panty tables.

Greedy bastards.

Hooray for Corporate America.

Wish me luck on my quest for a new job.