while she's ordering so we don't bump into each other.
I don't see Impatient until later that afternoon. I'm sitting in my bunk on the bus when she approaches. And I know it's immature, but I'm a little hurt by what I overheard her saying about me earlier and I've been stewing on it. And maybe a little mad at myself because I'm starting to question who I've turned into. I don't want to be a cliché. Whatever the reason, I don't even look at her when she starts talking. It's rude, but I can't help myself. She meets my evasiveness with a little of her own and stands facing away from me while she talks. Touché. Head turned slightly, she's side-eyeing me, but she's direct and to the point. The conversation goes something like this:
Scout: "You need to blah, blah, blah. And when you're done with that we need to go over blah, blah, blah."
Me: Ignore, but nod as if I'm listening.
Scout: Silence. My rudeness has been met with irritation. She's pissed and doesn't try to hide it. At least she doesn't embarrass herself and kiss my ass. She just flat out doesn't like me and has no qualms about it.
I'm discovering more and more that people in this business have no pride. They'll sacrifice morals, ethics, hell, even their own mother if it means getting ahead. It's fake. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants a piece of you. It disgusts me and warps my sense of reality. I'm almost happy this girl so blatantly doesn't like me. It restores my faith in humanity.
Sunday, April 23
(Scout)
I may not have many friends, but I try to give everyone a chance. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Probably because people have never really done the same for me. But lately, these past few months, my patience is shot. I make split second judgments on people and rarely go back on them. And they're usually negative. I've been around Gustov Hawthorne for a little over forty-eight hours now. He's an ass. My first impression was dead-on. I walked in on him trying to hit up the stylist. The fake, easy-going charm oozing out of him like some kind of toxic playmaking trap set for his next conquest. Men are pigs. Gustov may be one of their leaders. Not to mention that sobriety doesn't seem to be on his agenda for the next two months. He's going to live up to the "rock star" title if it kills him. And it just might. What a waste.
I'm here for the money. That's it. I've got a job to do. And I'm going to do it if it kills me, because I can't go back home. I can't. Okay to be fair, I'm here for two reasons: money and escape. Maybe leaning more toward escape, the opportune but temporary variety. I'm finishing up my two final online classes to graduate and get my degree next month. A degree and the money I make will hopefully allow me some permanent escape when this job is done. I know I'm running away from my problems. I know that. And I hate that . But being home reminds me of him. It makes me feel ugly inside. It makes me feel used. It makes me feel like a failure. And I hate failing at anything.
So, when I was offered this job very last minute, I jumped on it, even though it's not ideal. It boils down to the lesser of two evils. And this evil provides an exit from the other evil.
And so far, Gustov is fairly low maintenance—at least for me. I don't need his input for the majority of my daily tasks, and when we do need to communicate, I use a passive approach. Direct doesn't seem to work with him. I'm great at passive, and I prefer it; it's how I've lived most of my life. People respond better to me when I'm passive. And anyway, I don't think Gustov likes me either. That's fine. It's better this way. He's just a job. I'm here as a buffer between him and management because they don't want to deal with him. Honestly, I can't blame them. I want this job to be over with, but I've got this. That's my pep talk ... I've got this.
Nine fucking weeks.
God.
Fucking.
Help.
Me.
Wednesday, April 26
(Gus)
Scout isa big fan of sticky
I don't see Impatient until later that afternoon. I'm sitting in my bunk on the bus when she approaches. And I know it's immature, but I'm a little hurt by what I overheard her saying about me earlier and I've been stewing on it. And maybe a little mad at myself because I'm starting to question who I've turned into. I don't want to be a cliché. Whatever the reason, I don't even look at her when she starts talking. It's rude, but I can't help myself. She meets my evasiveness with a little of her own and stands facing away from me while she talks. Touché. Head turned slightly, she's side-eyeing me, but she's direct and to the point. The conversation goes something like this:
Scout: "You need to blah, blah, blah. And when you're done with that we need to go over blah, blah, blah."
Me: Ignore, but nod as if I'm listening.
Scout: Silence. My rudeness has been met with irritation. She's pissed and doesn't try to hide it. At least she doesn't embarrass herself and kiss my ass. She just flat out doesn't like me and has no qualms about it.
I'm discovering more and more that people in this business have no pride. They'll sacrifice morals, ethics, hell, even their own mother if it means getting ahead. It's fake. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants a piece of you. It disgusts me and warps my sense of reality. I'm almost happy this girl so blatantly doesn't like me. It restores my faith in humanity.
Sunday, April 23
(Scout)
I may not have many friends, but I try to give everyone a chance. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Probably because people have never really done the same for me. But lately, these past few months, my patience is shot. I make split second judgments on people and rarely go back on them. And they're usually negative. I've been around Gustov Hawthorne for a little over forty-eight hours now. He's an ass. My first impression was dead-on. I walked in on him trying to hit up the stylist. The fake, easy-going charm oozing out of him like some kind of toxic playmaking trap set for his next conquest. Men are pigs. Gustov may be one of their leaders. Not to mention that sobriety doesn't seem to be on his agenda for the next two months. He's going to live up to the "rock star" title if it kills him. And it just might. What a waste.
I'm here for the money. That's it. I've got a job to do. And I'm going to do it if it kills me, because I can't go back home. I can't. Okay to be fair, I'm here for two reasons: money and escape. Maybe leaning more toward escape, the opportune but temporary variety. I'm finishing up my two final online classes to graduate and get my degree next month. A degree and the money I make will hopefully allow me some permanent escape when this job is done. I know I'm running away from my problems. I know that. And I hate that . But being home reminds me of him. It makes me feel ugly inside. It makes me feel used. It makes me feel like a failure. And I hate failing at anything.
So, when I was offered this job very last minute, I jumped on it, even though it's not ideal. It boils down to the lesser of two evils. And this evil provides an exit from the other evil.
And so far, Gustov is fairly low maintenance—at least for me. I don't need his input for the majority of my daily tasks, and when we do need to communicate, I use a passive approach. Direct doesn't seem to work with him. I'm great at passive, and I prefer it; it's how I've lived most of my life. People respond better to me when I'm passive. And anyway, I don't think Gustov likes me either. That's fine. It's better this way. He's just a job. I'm here as a buffer between him and management because they don't want to deal with him. Honestly, I can't blame them. I want this job to be over with, but I've got this. That's my pep talk ... I've got this.
Nine fucking weeks.
God.
Fucking.
Help.
Me.
Wednesday, April 26
(Gus)
Scout isa big fan of sticky
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