Madness Takes Its Toll

I deleted my last post. (Like anyone cares. If you're even reading this, leave a comment. I don't care. Just say whatever.)

HOWEVER, I deleted it for two reasons. One, it sucked. No point or artistry applied. Two, it was kind of mean. I can't talk about customers. It's like a therapist talking about his client. What a shame. And I lied, there are three reasons. Three: I'm definitely paranoid right now.

Paranoid, you say? Yes. And when given time to think, I become completely paranoid. Hence, it all peaked at work today. I was considered to be the root of a problem (what that problem was, I'm not sure. Something with the register?). Ever since I was "confronted" about it (still in total darkness), I've been paranoid. What the fuck do they think I did? Why me? What about everyone else who worked yesterday? SHE DOESN'T LIKE ME. And now I'm wondering if she somehow read this. Like she has nothing better to do then look through blogs.

I've never been particularly social. I'm usually friendless, listening to music, writing plays and reading gay fiction. There are two people I talk to at work. TWO out of... what, 8 people? I actually would only count one of them because the other does most of the talking. I'm always wondering what the other 6 people are saying about me. Probably nothing but who knows. And then, I swear, after the "confrontation" (I like quotations), one of the managers was NOT being very friendly to me. She's usually real nice. Today she was... avoiding eye contact, not talking to me, barely smiling.

If that happened to you, you'd probably not care, right? I CARE. I can't have people I see every day not liking me. I can't handle that. I already feel awkward enough. Now I have people I don't know hating me?! What did I do?! And this lady-in-question can sure be mean and hold a good grudge. I'm going to be her next victim you guys. She's going to either a) stop scheduling me or b) put me on almost every day for long hours, even on my Spring Break.

OH. MY. GOD.

If I die, you'll know who killed me. She did. Or, out of manic paranoia I will have cut my wrists with the work scissors.