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I'm feeling rushed and so can't come up with a decent title for this shit.

27 January 2006 - 14:25

Today is my father's birthday. Happy birthday, Pifas. (And no, that's not his real name. It's what I call him, you idiots.)

Ok, now that that's outta the way...

This week I think I'll be bringing in about ten hours of O.T. Cha-ching! That's the good thing about work this week. Now onto the bad...

Yesterday I came very close to hitting a woman. Seriously. I don't believe in that: "men-shouldn't-hit-a-lady" crap. They ask for it, really. Yesterday it was Zamira. That's right, my wonderful-underful fellow FDC clerk. We usually get along pretty well, but last night she really pissed me off. Yelled at me and everything. Fuckin' bitch. But I think that what really got under my skin--

[I growl right now. Mother is here yakking at my side, making plans for my father's birthday burger. She won't take a fuckin' hint that I need to vent on this shit alone. Ok, she's gone now.]

Ok, where was I? Oh, yeah. What really irked me, what pissed me off, really, is that there was some truth to her words. She muttered something under her breath about how she couldn't process a multiple because I'd get pissed off. That little comment of hers is what really fired me up. Because, I told myself, I honestly don't give a fuck who processes the multiple shipments while we work. I usually handle all of them, o'course, but that's because I'm an organization freak (at work anyway) and I like to keep all the boxes together. As a team, we've all agreed it's a whole lot smoother if I process the multiples and get them outta everyone's way. But it makes Zamira bitter. She wants in on the fun, I guess. And I've seen this coming for a while already, this outburst of hers. Part of me was tense just waiting for it all this time. Because I'm a Capricorn, and I'm competitive as fuck. That's why I say there's truth to her words, and it found its way under my skin and into my nerve endings. Deep down, I do mind when people take my multiples. It ruins my pace that I work at. I already know how to get them outta the way as quickly as possible, and I like to believe I'm the only one who could do it, even though I know that's a big crock a' shit. See, when I work, I work. I'm not there to chit-chat. And that's one of the many reasons that Zamira and I rub each other the wrong way. We honestly only get along because we have to, I think.

Zamira is very nice; I should state this before I go any further on this. She's a short full-figured lady. Ok, she's fat. But not really, really fat. She's just a little overweight. But so am I, and I'm not one to critisize a person's look. I'm just trying to paint a picture here for y'all. She's morenita with dark brown hair to her mid back in layers. She's always smiling, always talking. She can't lift heavy packages... actually, she struggles with anything over 30 pounds, so she never takes the belt for too long. She's full of energy, or at least that's what she's always telling other people. I wouldn't say she's the most perk person out there, but she is pretty bubbly. Ok, so that's that.

Me. Oh, God, me! I'm taller than Zamira, o'course, but, being Mexican, I'm not too tall. 5'7". Aaron's taller than me by about four inches. I'm overweight too, but, being Mexican, that's the norm. 205 lbs. I lost 10 pounds last week, big fuckin' whoop. I've let my hair get long, and it gets to me. I wanna shave it off again. But that's not the point. I wear it slicked back in a ponytail and top it off with a bandanna around my head, like a skull cap. Baggy jeans and t-shirt. Chain wallet, military boots. Black leather studded spiked belt to match my leather... er, bracelets? I'd hate to call them that, but I guess that's what they are. I'll call them "wrist guards" to make myself feel better. Black nails, kinda gothic, you could say. I'm quiet when I work, at least that's what I like to tell myself. I do talk, but not often, and never when I'm busy. Aaron and I have that in common. I'm not perky, I'd kill myself if I ever got bubbly. People at the warehouse say I'm agressive, that I scare them. Must be the silver finger armor. *shruggs* The picture I'm trying to convey here of myself is that I'm not the friendliest person at UPS, I guarantee you that. I'm a loner by nature, always have been, probably'll die that way too. And if there's an afterlife after all this bullshit, I'll probably tell people to fuck off there too. I enjoy my solitude.

Zamira and I share nothing in common, save for one small detail: we're competitive as fuck. It's all about who can process the most shipments, at least in my mind, and, judging by her little outburst yesterday, I'll bet on hers, too. I just don't notice these things, when I get like that. I zone out, and all that exists are the boxes and the sweat and the rough hands and the computer monitor. And the radio. Can't forget the heavy metal, the punk, the heavy rock and the occasional Mexican rap. Anything out of that sphere, and I mean anything is beyond my control and interest. People talk to me and I don't listen, I blare the tiny computer speakers to as much as they can go, and everything else drowns. Then I'm a robot, moving as fast as my body is able to, grabbing boxes off the rollers, throwing them back on the belt, yelling when there's the occasional jam. Force your way into my work world and face my black and silver wrath. I've been known to yell at supervisors and even cuss at them once in a while if they get too pushy. And yesterday, Zamira got way too pushy for me. I take orders from no one except those in power at UPS, and even then, when I have to question authority I do. There is no chance in hell I'm gonna take yelled orders from some fat short little bitch with less seniority than I've got. The look in my eyes made her shrink away for the rest of the night, and I said nothing. I refused to speak to her for a good part of the night, and I know she suffered, the air was tense, and she's used to yakking her mouth off while she works. With Juan gone, she's got no one left to yakk to. She lingered by Aaron for support... and maybe protection. 'Cause I swear, I don't give a shit that I'm fond of the kid, if he woulda gotten in my way of whooping that bitch's ass, I woulda taken him down too. At the cost of my job, of course, since I woulda probably whipped out them shuriken and people don't know I go to work armed with tiny martial arts throwing stars. Fuck it, I mighta even used my boxcutter. Yes, believe me that I would have.

If I didn't value my job, and thank God that I do.

And a few weeks back, Zamira had told me, "Do you got a problem or do you want a problem?" with her small hands on her hips. Aaron and I had laughed, because really, it's a joke that she would consider herself a threat to me. But it's comments like those that show me that she's dead serious in her dislike of me. I honestly don't believe she likes me too much, if at all... and I don't care. I don't really like her much either. I remember my first impression of her was that she annoyed the crap outta me. I've learned to tolerate her and it's dwindled down to acceptance, but every once in a while she'll pull some shit off like this, and while I can usually shrug it off or take it as a joke and laugh with Aaron about it, it pricks at something in the back of my brain; something triggers and I wanna pounce her down. There's days, like yesterday, where I really wish I'd never met her, or anyone like her. She's just too... nice for me, know what I mean?

I pricked back at her too, I know that. Otherwise she wouldn't have gotten upset either. Because sometimes I see her watching me and I can tell she's jealous, she's fuckin' jealous! Because I get on with Juan and Aaron better about certain things more than she does. Juan and Zamira get along really badass; they're both around the same age, and they've both got kids, a family of their own. Aaron and I, we're the kids, we still go to school and romp around and play. He plays poker, he romps in clubs late at night. I play guitar and romp in the mash pits. He's a pothead, I'm a rawker, but we're kids nonetheless. Still, Juan can talk to me about things Zamira can't really accept, and that's this: Juan acts like a guy around me, he's no gentleman. And that shocks Zamira, and she blushes and gasps when I shoot that shit right back at him. When he starts to talk about chiches y vergas and prostitutes and getting high or tanked, he does so with more ease around me because I'm one of the guys. And that's something she can't be. She's a woman, and as such, she's gotta get all blushy and shit. And she hates the fact that I don't. I'm as much at ease talking about family as I am talking about blunts and drunk bitches. I can talk about sex and laugh, she can't. And she hates me 'cause she's jealous. But that's not my fuckin' problem.

I'll prove my point. The other day, was it Monday? Yeah, it was this past Monday, Juan and Zamira and I were all standing around talking. In the whirl of the conversation, Juan ends up asking me out to lunch sometime, as buddies, 'cause that's what we are. And Zamira gets hurt, because he didn't invite her. She turned her doleful eyes on me like it was my fault. She was so mournful, it was absolutely pathetic. Juan just shruggs it off and tells her that of course, she can come along too if she wants, anytime, but that never makes it better for her. See, her problem is that Juan asked me out to lunch and not her. If he'd asked her, I wouldn'ta given a naked rat's ass. But that's just how I am, and that's just how she is, I guess. *sigh* We'll never get along. Not really.

Shit. And now I gotta take off, or 'Ama'll be late for work.

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