I really do hate my manager. The last time I had work with him, he was supposed to close the store, and made me do it, which isn't that big of a deal except when he decided it was important, yet again, to teach me how to count coins.

I told him I didn't think it mattered how I counted the money, and he was like, yes, but I PREFER it, and repeated himself when I tried to counter it again.

I'm incoherent about this because I can't see past the rage I have at him trying to control how I do things. Like, okay, you have policies and procedures about how the store is run, and I'll follow that because it's your store, but telling me how to count things? That, to me, is crossing the line, because you're imposing your personal preference on me. It has no functional reason other than the fact that you just want it that way.

Normally, I'd close without you breathing down my neck anyway, and I've been able to do it my way successfully, so back the fuck off until you show me it's actually better rather than just some weird anal tick of yours that you need to get the fuck over.

Oh my fucking god, I think I actually hate my manager.

I know that no matter what I write, it'll end up incoherent because I'm not even totally sure why.
All I know is that life is difficult and I hate him for making it more difficult because the tiny selfish things he does make it more difficult for me, and I already have my plate full trying navigate through my own neuroses without having to worry about satisfying his when he's not even going to do anything himself.
So yes.

I'm just going to further enrage myself dwelling even more about how he always leaves the dishes on the counter overnight, so then I'll have to soak them even longer, or how he crams the sink so full and won't do any dishes so that he's got no other choice but to put the on the counter, and they dry overnight. Because of course he's above washing the dishes, even though he has this foolproof method that he's carefully cultivated for five years.

So yes. I'm going to move on from his unwillingness to vacuum whenever he has a closing shift, or how week after week he seems to want to leave right when the store closes, so he leaves shit on the table, and doesn't count the cash or anything, and then life is more complicated for me when I have to open and prepare for a party.

There is absolutely no point in going over each excruciating detail, every single one of his inadequacies, and self-indulgences, because if I am too descriptive, I will just stir the pot even more until my feelings boil over and one day I actually tell him exactly what I think, that he probably has ADHD and severely needs medication, that making lists is a very useful thing to do, and that all of his little idiosyncratic preferences don't actually matter since either way, he's not going to be the one to actually accomplish the task.

Which is why I'm totally not going into any more detail.

No. No, mother, you're right. I shouldn't have come back. You never had any of these problems when it was just you.

Yes.
I'm so sorry I had the lack of foresight to come home.

And no, mother, you're right. I don't do anything other than eat and sleep. The dishes that were covered in black ash after the fire washed themselves. The counter miraculously became clean on its own. All the plastic coffee cups you hoard that fell over into the candle (which I knocked over) have nothing to do with anything. The fact that the counter was already cluttered with useless crap did in no way contribute to the fire. It was all me and my carelessness.

And if the carpet and floor where the sink is is wet after all the washing I did to clean up after my terrible irreparable fire, then it's as if I did nothing at all. I might as well have let the fire burn down everything. At least the floor wouldn't have been wet.