Going Postal: Day 18

seventhseal.jpgDay 18: Death in Measured Doses

It is about 6:30 in the morning, I just got home a little while ago, and I’ve decided to at least start this entry before going to bed. Even though I’m tired, I can’t fall asleep right away—partially because I’m in too much pain. I just took a hot bath and soaked in some Epsom salt, which was sent to me by my dear, sweet friend Miki. Hand’s down, she wins the “Best Woman I Know Award.” Not only has she been sending emails to check up on me, she actually sent me the Epsom salt—which cost more to send from California than it actually cost to buy. I know there are some women out there vying for the status of being the love of my life, and as long as Miki has a man and continues to live in California, you have a chance. But if her status ever changes, I will marry her in a second (even if she doesn’t want to get married).

I’ve often said that when I die, I hope it is quick and painless. I don’t want to endure a long painful death—one of those long, drawn-out experiences with a ton of suffering. In my mind, that’s the worst way to go. Well, working at the post office is a bit like dying a slow, painful death. It is a death in measured doses that comes in twelve hour shifts, with a half hour for lunch, and three 15-minute breaks. It pays you differential for working between 6 pm and 6 am, and you get over-time after 40 hours, but it kills you—physically and mentally (as well as socially and spiritually).

Today was marked by 297,000 pounds of mail we had to process. That’s over a quarter of a million pounds of mail. And I lifted a whole motherfuckin’ lot of those 297,000 pounds. After six hours of “loading the belt,” my back pretty much gave out on me. The pain was off the charts. My wrists were on fire, my fingers were tingling, and I thought, “This is it! Elizabeth, I’m comin’ to join you. I’ll be the one holding the big sack of priority mail headed for Alaska.”

I said to one of the supervisors, “I gotta get off the belt. Send me somewhere else, send me home, or send me to the emergency room, because I think I may have blown my back out.” She looks at me and says, “If you hurt your back here, don’t tell anyone, or you will lose this job.”

I looked at her and thought, “Wow, I bet having sex with you would be a real treat.” Seriously. That’s what I thought. Nothing is more fun to fuck than a cold-blooded broad who doesn’t give a shit about you or anything else, and that’s because you don’t have to give a shit about her. You don’t have to give her an orgasm, and you can shoot a load in her face and tell all your friends about it, because a cold-blooded broad isn’t worthy of respect or consideration.

Anyway, my supervisor was kind enough to transfer me about thirty minutes later, and over the course of the next six hours, she never once asked me how I was doing. That makes her like a few other people in my life, but the difference is she’s not someone I consider a friend. But since I don’t want to open up that can of worms, I will move on to other things.

I’m not sure what it is I’m trying to prove by holding on to this job, but I realize that it must be something. Sure, I need the money—I really need the money—but there’s more to it than that. It is not even the common sense practice of not quitting a job until you have another one lined up. No, for some reason that I can’t begin to understand, I’m keeping this job to prove something. What that something is, and to whom I’m trying to prove it to is lost on me right now, but it’s there. At least it was there until today. Something snapped today—aside from my wrist while lifting a sack full of bricks wrapped in steel being sent to Alaska—and I realized that I needed to get over whatever bullshit ego thing was keeping me at this job, and that I needed to move on. I’m not sure when I’m going to quit—it may be later today, after I go to sleep, if the feeling in my right hand hasn’t returned. Or I may wait until the end of the week, so I can clock a few more shifts, earn that overtime, and have a few extra dollars. And I may just stick it out until after Christmas, if they will pay me time and half to work a shift on Christmas day. But that’s it—seven more days at the most.

Part II: It is now 1:45 in the afternoon. I just woke up from about 5 ½ hours of very fitful sleep, and that’s all the rest I get before going back into action. Some of the feeling has returned to my right hand, most of the “pins and needles” have faded, but I still can’t make a fist, or use it to open a bottle of juice (let alone jerk off). In all seriousness, I’m really freaked out. I’ve been pumping myself full of painkillers—which is not good for the liver—and still my hand is fucked up. I’ve been avoiding all the headache and bullshit of filing a workers comp claim, but I’m going to have to do it. The thought of not being able to jerk off with my right hand for the rest of my life is unbearable.

I have more I want to write, but I have too much other stuff to get done.


One Response to “Going Postal: Day 18”

  1. mikimonster Says:


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