I am a machinist by trade. I work with steel and iron, and certain kinds of polymers and polycarbonates, to create things people need to live and work. In practice, I am now a pizza delivery guy. The two professions do not coincide in such a way that they benefit each other.
The latter also does little to reinforce my faith in humanity.
Delivering things to the houses of America’s fat and lazy is a job left to someone of that persuasion. I am neither, yet I depend on that demographic. Like a politician who depends on fat, hyper-religious housewives and drunken blue-collar workers as his base, I have to earn my living catering to the fat, lazy, and just plain stupid residents of San Marcos.
I do not like my job.
I once managed a pizza place. When I was nineteen, I was the Assistant Manager for a franchise of the world’s shittiest pizza: Gatti’s to Go. It was not pleasant. Between the rude people, stupid management, and apathetic employees, I had to somehow make the goddamned business run smoothly, all the while nursing a healthy taste for speed and other mind-destroying chemicals. Those things combined to make me a very unhappy person.
My calling, if it can be called that, is to work with either a word processor, or machines that require operators. My calling is not to deal with the general public on a daily basis.
I hate the general public.
