Working for the Weekend - Literally

I'm already irritated enough just turning on my computer today. It's taken well over 10 minutes to get to this page due to the "does-not-compute" ness of my five-year-old computer. And that virus program update that starts up automatically in the "background" so as not to disturb user functions bungs up my computer for about 5 extra minutes so every small click of the mouse is equivalent to an attempt to access the entirety of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Boo. Technology advances too fast for the poor.

I'm becoming ever-more envious of those students who have money fed to them through a tube by their parents, as every weekend I seem to get progressively longer and shittier shifts at work. I've become the antithesis of most students and regular Joes who count down the days till Friday. Friday in my little world is the second most dreaded day of the week, as it means only a few short hours until waking up at some God awful hour, standing on my feet all day, being talked down to and lectured by customers, then going home, eating and sleeping just to do it all again the next day. Oh - and the most dreaded day - Sunday at work, 9 and a half hours of craptacular retail enslavement.

I'm considering quitting by March, leaving myself open for studying and paper writing and all the readings I haven't been able to catch up on. The problem is, I like things. I like to own things. I like to come into my space and see things, feel and touch them, use them and dispose of them as I please. I've recently discovered the sad truth that I truly am the definition of a quote, unquote, Consumer Whore. Sometimes I think I could do something really great and selfless, like convince a friend that life is worth living, or organize a group of people to create a significant reaction felt around the world, cure some sort of disease by accident like the Penicillan men, and still my life would feel empty and unfulfilled if I didn't have tangible processions to prove that I've lived. This seriously conflicts with my desire to get the hell out of the living arrangements I've kept for the last 13 years of my life and out of the unrelenting talons of my mother's control, ideally out of the suburbs altogether. I need to a trip, no where too far or too exotic, just enough to throughly convince me, if only for a few fleeting moments, that this life I live and the conditions that keep me chained in one place no longer exist.

It all comes down to money in the end. The sad truth rears its head once again. And so another weekend from hell begins.