Today we were redoing our women's department, and ever head of store from the district came to "help"
I was assigned to this whore of a woman who kept making references to the fact that I was tired- BITCH PLEASE. It is 7am, I worked until 1230am at my OTHER job, and we lost an hour. Why don't you go fuck yourself?
Then I run into some little minion whores from some other store that started snickering and talking trash about me literally seconds after passing me. All because I was-gasp!- adjusting my shirt in the -gasp!- back room.
THEN queen of the whores decides I have finally proven myself worthy of something more than fetching her shelves, and send me to fold THIRTY NINE pairs of sale denim, asking me if I know how to fold jeans and count. Bitch, I just counted that we had 39, was that not good enough.
As a matter of fucking fact no, no it wasn't. She made me count backwards from 16 to prove that I would be able to create a size run. In front of her and two other managers.
I WILL HAVE MY MASTER'S DEGREE IN LESS THAN TWO MONTHS AND YOU WILL STILL BE A MANAGER AT THE FUCKING WARWICK MALL.