I switched from my old gas station job to one inside the store doing night stocking.

After barely a week of being too slow, knocking things over and having to re-assemble them, putting things in the wrong place, trying to fulfill the most contradictory orders I've ever received, maybe getting two hours of sleep a day in my busy, busy house, slicing my hands open on things, being run ragged for eight hours a night and still getting everything wrong, exacerbating a couple of joint issues I've been having, and feeling like a worthless millstone to every worker around me, I walked into the new store manager's office and got out: "I-If possible, I'd like to t-transfer back to—" before I broke down sobbing uncontrollably like a pathetic thirty-one year-old man-baby. Right in front of this perfect stranger of a boss.

And that's how I got my old job back. Today.

What does this mean for you? It means I'm a giant wuss who blew a chance to make more money.

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