I think the government is getting to me...
After spending the past two days waking up at 6 because I have to be in Flint for Postal training (where they teach me how to operate fully automatic weapons after particularly stressful days in the post office), I'm pretty pissed off. The biggest problems here are the facts that 1) I've gone through the training two years in a row. I know what APC's and BMC's look like, and the difference between express, priority, and first-third class mail. 2) The training I received every year had absolutely nothing to do with what I was trying to accomplish once I got to the job site. It has nothing to do with the job I already know how to do this year. 3) The two previous years, it was in Royal Oak, about 15 minutes from my parents' house. Having to drive an hour to Flint for 6 hour classes about the history of the post office and top-down or bottom-up communication* is just ridiculous. It has a couple upsides to it, however. For one, I get paid for all this wasted time, as well as the mileage for hauling my ass up there daily. Secondly, I met a cutie from Troy in class. Being the blatantly youngest there, we had at least college in common, so we started talking and what not. Doubt anything will come of it, but it's a decent time-kill and best case scenario, I'll have a hang-out destination in Troy over the summer (no offense Emily).
Evidence of the post office grinding on my nerves: Disturbing/hilarious dream from last night-
I watch what seems to be a b-movie version of professional wrestling. One of the wrestlers falls down, and proceeds to disrobe, only to reveal himself as Vince McMahon. He stops the show, and each of the wrestlers pulls a pistol on all 10 of us watching. I spot the closest wrestler to me, chop the gun out of his hand and jump on him. The rest of the wrestlers jump on me, and Vince comes over to break it all up. He decides that there is only one way to settle this; one on one moshing. I tell him that, since I'm outnumbered, I get to pick the music, so I pull out my live Pantera cd, and get ready to whip some professional wrestler ass. Just as I'm ready to mosh this 'roided goon to the floor, his rat of a side-kick pulls my cd out of the stereo and chucks it into the wall. As if my dream cut to commercial, the next thing I know, I'm getting ready for bed, only there's two beds in my room, and I'm on the floor between them. I get up and notice that the little fucker who trashed my cd is in one of the beds. I pounce on him and start beating the hell out of him. In the resulting skirmish, the other guy wakes up, and as I look over and give him a death stare, he just lays there watching. I take the little fuck out of bed, throw him into the hall way, and continue to beat the ever-living tar out of him. He starts to cry, I keep belting him in the face, and the next thing I know, I'm surrounded by the rest of his buddies. Then I woke up.
Moral of the story: Don't fuck with my children.
*I learned all about this stuff in Organizational Communications, my "useless major". Funny thing was that the guy explaining it all to us introduced the subject as "a little thing the post office noticed going on and decided to change it up." Tomorrow, I can expect to be told that the post office initiated the space program, came up with the cure for cancer decades ago, invented the internet, and already had a colony the size of Texas on Mars.
Evidence of the post office grinding on my nerves: Disturbing/hilarious dream from last night-
I watch what seems to be a b-movie version of professional wrestling. One of the wrestlers falls down, and proceeds to disrobe, only to reveal himself as Vince McMahon. He stops the show, and each of the wrestlers pulls a pistol on all 10 of us watching. I spot the closest wrestler to me, chop the gun out of his hand and jump on him. The rest of the wrestlers jump on me, and Vince comes over to break it all up. He decides that there is only one way to settle this; one on one moshing. I tell him that, since I'm outnumbered, I get to pick the music, so I pull out my live Pantera cd, and get ready to whip some professional wrestler ass. Just as I'm ready to mosh this 'roided goon to the floor, his rat of a side-kick pulls my cd out of the stereo and chucks it into the wall. As if my dream cut to commercial, the next thing I know, I'm getting ready for bed, only there's two beds in my room, and I'm on the floor between them. I get up and notice that the little fucker who trashed my cd is in one of the beds. I pounce on him and start beating the hell out of him. In the resulting skirmish, the other guy wakes up, and as I look over and give him a death stare, he just lays there watching. I take the little fuck out of bed, throw him into the hall way, and continue to beat the ever-living tar out of him. He starts to cry, I keep belting him in the face, and the next thing I know, I'm surrounded by the rest of his buddies. Then I woke up.
Moral of the story: Don't fuck with my children.
*I learned all about this stuff in Organizational Communications, my "useless major". Funny thing was that the guy explaining it all to us introduced the subject as "a little thing the post office noticed going on and decided to change it up." Tomorrow, I can expect to be told that the post office initiated the space program, came up with the cure for cancer decades ago, invented the internet, and already had a colony the size of Texas on Mars.