Day Job

“Good morning, doctor’s office. Of course, how can I help you? Okay, great. When did you want to schedule that in for? Perfect, I’ll just need your name and phone number. Thank you so much, we’ll see you then. Take care, bye-bye.”

Soul-sucking safety. Those are the two words that accurately categorize my life as of this moment. It’s half past noon on a Saturday, two months into my day job as a receptionist at a chiropractic clinic and already the sheer terror of suburban mommies mixed with the supreme laziness associated with graduating into a mountain of unforgivable student loans debt has rendered me immobile. That, and the fact that my last hoorah had given me a nasty case of human papillomavirus, coupled with the fatigue of cutting caffeine and going off ritalin, combines to make Shani Chabansky one gigantic shlep.

“No, this place is a yuppie breeding ground. Seriously, the Groupon office is two blocks from my clinic and Facebook was founded just down the street. I swear, if I get one more angry phone call from a stay-at-home mom about some billing code or unfriendly massage therapist…” Poor bestie, taking the place of my therapist.

To say that Shallow Alto is anything less than a total fake–new age hippies that have completely sold out in exchange for a Prius and a premium insurance plan–is nothing short of ignorance. The only thing keeping me sane is squeezing the last few drops out of my paycheck and kissing lesbian cops in the Castro district once a week. Everything else is pure grind.

And yes, I am aware of how whiney I sound.

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