nadir

I had this nightmare yesterday:

I worked at Superstore bagging groceries and pushing carts out into the lot for people. I was bagging this one heatbag's groceries and I noticed he left the keys to his Mistubishi out on the counter so I swiped them. We walked his groceries (which consisted of lots of Ichiban) out into the parking lot and to his car, and then he realized he'd left his keys on the counter so he said, "Wait, I'll be right back." So when he ran in I took his car keys out and opened up his car and went through his glove compartment and stole a bunch of cash, because apparently a significant percentage of heatbags keep their wads in their glove compartment.

I closed it up and then went to take a look in the trunk, but as I opened it up the man came back and caught me. I got a tongue lashing as I made a mad dash back to the store and then hid in the upstairs staff room so he couldn't catch me. For some reason that eludes me now that I'm awake in reality, the guy didn't complain to the manager or anything, in the kind of logic that only works in dreams.

So I was pretty happy with like the $25 I'd stolen from his compartment, when the manager tells me that I have to go help the "chinks out front with building the gazebo." I bite my tongue because we're the racial minority in this oppressive white world and run out front and help these fobs move bricks into a van. We labor like this for half an hour in the blistering hot sun, then I walk home to my ruddy basement suite the size of a closet. I've set it up minimalist in nature, but not because I want to, but because I can't afford any furniture.

I stand in front of the mirror for a second and look at myself. I am fat, balding, and I spawn the most disgusting 5 o'clock shadow known to man.

I can safely say that being a loser of that calibre is probably the lowest in life I can get. I am a thief and not the cool, organized Italian Job-Ocean's Eleven kind, but of the grab-a-shirt-at-the-Army-&-Navy-and-run variety. I work labor and not the glamorous building highrises kind, but of the building-railroads-like-the-coolie-you-are type. I work at Superstore, I don't own a car, I live in a shitty place when I'm 38, and I am disgusting.

If I ever get that way in real life, you might as well shoot me. I'll let you.