Confessions and thoughts of a student working at a toy shop.
So I have worked at a toy shop for about a month, and a few random things keep popping into my head that I have to put down.
Putting a balloon over the nozzle reminds me of putting a condom over a dick (special points if it is the opaque brown one)
When a customer comes in my boredom says yes; my anxiety says no.
Most of the time when someone asks for help, 90% of the time I have no idea where the thing is, even though I have past it hundred times in an hour.
And the % of that 90%, I either ask the manager where it is, or say that I will check the back room.
I will literally pop in, pretend to look around and go back and say sorry if it is not immediately in front of me.
I am getting over my social anxiety because of it.
Once a French woman was super rude to us and she said I never wrapped before, so I left a price on the gift. So I have the last laugh, bitch!
Type of people who come in: British women (I live in S.Africa) who have denim jackets and dyed blonde hair. Every. Single. One. The others consist of white fathers with bitchy children who whine about everything in life, and old ladies who want pressies for their grandchildren and are completely insistent about every fucking thing.
I hate actually doing shit. If I have to find another fucking piece of lego from our other branch for some, i will find someone, anyone, to kill.
They pay me shit for dealing with those kids who have fuck all respect and scream bloody murder for their parent’s breathing.
Saturdays, we are busy af, but it is nice to not move the store two inches from the left to the right.