I get nothin' but abuse

There's a discarded hubcap on the tracks at Logan Square. It looked pretty new, and since the tracks are underground, someone had to carry a hubcap downstairs and then throw it on the tracks. Since it's Logan Square, my money is on 1) ironical hipsters, 2) stoopid high schoolers, 3) un borracho.
My first car was a LeMans that was always losing hubcaps, and the younger me resents the loss of a perfectly nice hubcap. But after days lost to a high fever and horrible stomach cramps, it was a nice welcome back to the working week.

Work which involved a client coming in reeking of liquor. Her excuses were weak--because she was drunk, probably. But cough syrup? I am naive but not yet headless. If I were in the grips of an endless and destructive addition, I would have said that my Burger King cup was filled with rubbing alcohol because of a cut on my foot that requires near constant disinfecting. After this, in two hours of total chaos, an angry 4 year old repeatedly punched me and spat right in my face. If I knew how to link songs to weblogs then a) I would get a better frackin job, b) you would join me in listening to 'Punks Jump Up to Beat Down' by the Brand Nubians. I get nothin but abuse.

The confusion is this: from whence does this abuse come? From my clients? I'm the one who went and insinuated myself in their lives, and to be perfectly honest, if we could pan away from nearly every room I have occupied professionally, and you could do some kind of abuse-measuring infrared tracking, I'm glowing blue. I'm the safest. Some tiny-fist-punching and toddler spit is, in comparison, the ball pit at McPlayland.

If it is not the kids or the moms then it is me, my agency, or my God. It is not me because, despite the Sainted title, I am not the martyr type. At the most, to any one task, I give 85%. Because I flirted with anarchism as an undergrad, I find that, clearly, the Man is taking advantage of my poor professional boundaries. As Best Friend pointed out, this is my first professional job, all Mastered out and whatnot. It is incumbent upon me to make my supervisors aware of how much I can handle, which is: not much. Just enough.

As far as blaming God, let us remember the time in Gyumri Bible study that Jen Haile said (and oh if you could hear that sweet Texas accent), "I was not promised a life of ease but a life of peace." To this I add: I was not promised a life free from punches and spit, but a life which I hope is not full of shit. And this one I like, and may have tattooed on my neck or something: I was not promised a life without debt, but a life that is def.

A final note: while home sick, I watched a documentary on the Clash. Oh, Joe Strummer. I fear I will never know one so righteous and pretty as you. Except for my companion as I watched TV and writhed in pain: our new cat, Mary. She loves the Clash, constant attention, and napping.

She is learning to play the drums.