?

Log in

 
 
24 June 2009 @ 12:41 pm
Dear Bitchy Supervisor...  
I hate you. I hate you so much, that I can't believe you're not dead already. Why the hell can't I hate you to death? Why is that not possible. I wish you would die. I wish something would disembowel you, or that rabid animals would eat you alive. I wish you the most horrifying death possible.

I'm so fucking sick of you hovering just around the corner, waiting for me to fuck up so you can tell me about it 10-15 times within the next day or so. I'm so tired of how you feel the need to tell everyone just what the hell they're doing wrong. Like you're so fucking perfect yourself. Like you don't shit or something. I'm sick of receiving stupid-ass notes about things that happened several days in the past, and were no goddamned big deal. If you don't fucking catch it within a day, fucking let it go.

If you're going to tell me how to do something, have the decency to show me. Have the common courtesy to remember my damn name when you're asking me in that accusing tone of voice if I had anything to do with whatever the hell you found wrong this time. I don't know what the hell the last person at the register was doing, and why the hell should I? I'm responsible for me. It isn't my fault your dumbass can't take the time to do things that need to be done.

Quit being a bitch. Stop standing around waiting for people to fuck up. Try doing something that needs to be done, instead of acting as though every little tiny thing you do couldn't possibly be done by a damned trained monkey, and probably better at that! I could run the damn store better than you. You're doing a shitty job.

Yelling at people in front of the customers does not dictate good customer service. Neither does taking over my transaction and acting as though I'm some sort of dimwit that hasn't a clue what to do with herself.

Show some concern if I ask you for a bandaid. Don't look at me like I stabbed myself in the finger with your retarded ass security measures on purpose. You think I go around stabbing myself for attention? There are so many better ways to get it, ones that don't hurt so damned much. I had a bruise on my finger for a week, and thanks so damned much for bringing me that bandaid. You know. The one I asked for while trying not to bleed on the customer's clothes? You sure were a huge help there.

You ever stop to wonder why nothing's done the way you want it? I can tell you why. Because your way is fucking stupid and doesn't work. Also the way you ask just makes everything in my body scream to do the exact opposite. You know why I haven't quit and left your godforsaken register-trained apes to fend for themselves? Because then you'd have what you so obviously want. And I can't have you thinking you're any better than you are.

For the last time, I don't want to ride home with you. I'd rather get mugged or raped than listen to a minute more of your yammering on about shit that doesn't pertain to me. I don't want your 'charity', and I don't care that you think it's safer for me to ride with you. Why the hell do you think I carry an asp? For shits and giggles? I can take care of myself. I'm not five years old, I don't need you to clean up after me. Stop acting like you're doing me favors, because you're not. I'd be better off bleeding in the street than under your care.

You know what? I'm thrilled that you spent damn near an hour looking for me after work that one day. Fucking thrilled. I'm glad you wasted your gas and your time. I did that on purpose. I intentionally left before you. I snagged a ride with someone else, and didn't tell you. Because I want you to suffer.

That day that our store manager got on you about shit that needed to be done? I could not have been happier at how upset you were. I wish you would have quit. You're too god-damned old to be working there anyway. I'm shocked you're still alive. I'm sure it's just all the menace you have inside of you. You're too damned righteous to die, aren't you? The world would fall to shit without you here to tape it back together. Well you're wrong. And the world's a shithole anyway. What are you doing to fix it? Nothing, that's what.

You know why your husband died? Because you wouldn't let his mistakes go. You hounded him to death. You waited for him to fuck up so you could remind him of it every time he looked at you wrong. He died to get the hell away from you. I hope that made you happy, because he's probably happier wherever the hell he ended up.

I go home almost every day that I work with you seething mad. I'm mad for hours later. The way you treat your employees is shitty at best. I'm stunned you haven't been fired. The only reason you're still working there is because no one has the balls to step up to you and tell you what they think. You have everyone so damned scared of you that you get whatever the hell you want. You've made wonderful employees quit, I'm sure. I've never witnessed it, but I'd almost rather be dead than work with you.

No one will mourn you if you die. We will celebrate over your grave. I hope you burn.
 
 
Current Location: home
Current Mood: pissed offpissed off