I know that it must be rough, working for minimum wage at the local big-box store. I know that your employers are cold, heartless, impersonal, moneygrubbing bastards who only care about their bottom line, and not about their employees. I feel for you. I really do. Everyone should have a job that they enjoy. I hope you'll find one someday.
Beyond that, I really do empathize with you. I mean, my looks have really gone downhill since that third pregnancy, and you know how bad that can make a woman feel. I'm self-conscious and overly sensitive. I feel like people are always judging my looks. So I know how you must feel, walking around God's green earth with a face like a baboon's ass. It would make anyone a little cranky.
It must be a rough gig, standing behind that counter all day, measuring out fabric and ribbon by the yard, snipping those scissors up and down, up and down, all that folding, all that pinning. All that incessant smiling and politeness to the customers must be a bitch. Compared to that, dragging my whining, pinching, incessantly complaining offspring, so desperately in need of a snack, around running errands is a freaking cakewalk. I should be baking *you* a cake, Marie, in all that free time I have. You know, since my life is such a damn pleasure cruise with these shrieking children biting each other in the cart.
I can understand your mood being down, since your life is such a pile of shit. But here's what I don't understand: when some bedraggled woman comes up to your counter, bearing fabric for measuring, cutting, folding, and pinning, and that woman is hauling two obviously hungry and tired children with her, and that frazzled woman JOKINGLY tells her oldest daughter that if she doesn't behave, she may have to leave her with the nice fabric lady...
where the fuck do you get off telling her that you'd call Social Services on her, because you're not a damn babysitter?
I WASN'T EVEN TALKING TO YOU!!!
It's obvious that you're unused to the ways of children, and the various things their mothers say to them when they're being irritating. I can grant you that. How could you know? Your wizened, shriveled loins couldn't produce a living thing if they tried - how should I expect you to understand communications between a mother and child?
It must have been my mistake for talking to my child within your earshot. Lord knows you frigid, malicious bitches love to eavesdrop, seeing as you have nothing better to do with your time. I'll be certain to remonstrate with her using my telepathic powers next time, rather than burdening your ears with my silly little parenting jokes.
So much for the ears. But next time, Marie, when you open your wrinkled yap to bark out some ill-willed retort, I have a suggestion - fucking. bite. me.
Thanks for the fabric!