Diary of a Mad Worker Bee
I’ve never seen more proof of the devil’s existence than when I worked with children. Work began at 5:30 a.m., which is when they rose, spread their black wings, and decided what to destroy first. Oh, such unholy acts were perpetrated by the terror totters. I have seen little Brittany (they are all named “Brittany” unless they are named “Tori”) take a pointed rock and pound another child’s kneecaps to a bloody mash over a swing. It took such willpower for me not to isolate an offender in a remote area and say, “Listen, you fucking little playground terrorist, you are evil, evil, evil, and if I ever catch you harming another child, I will gut you like a deer, rip out your heart, and feed it to whatever devil you worship.”
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Maybe I just haven’t found my niche. Maybe my super-duper job is waiting just around the corner. And maybe that job will gratify, fulfill, and make me put my nose to the grindstone. In the meantime, my hand is killing me from all this typing, so I’m going to have to quit.
