I like to think of every part of life, no matter how seemingly bad at the time allows us to grow. So, on the last day of my embarrassing work as a deli-clerk, I thought I’d compile a list of things I learned in my two week stint of employment.

How to slice meat

That “My bad” is a “Nigger-phrase”

What prosciutto tastes like

That Somalia is full of Niggers

How it feels to run your fingers down a chicken’s spine and grab the inside of it’s ribcage. (Hint: Like betraying your vegan father)

That calling a customer a “fucking Jew fuck” for the 8th time in a day can be made up for by saying “I didn’t mean anything toward you”

That spilling a mix of soapy warm water, ice water, and chicken blood on your crotch makes it look and feel like you peed yourself for the rest of the day.

That it is funny when an ex con decides to start referring to you as his bitch.

That a good chinese prostitute costs $120

That you can get a chinese prostitute for $40

That knives are sharp and they can draw blood

How small my penis gets after an hour and a half in a walk in freezer

That the girl in aisle 6 is getting my co-worker’s dick hard

How to make sundried tomato pasta

That the 61 yr old ex-con with the swastika tattoos and no lower front teeth “likes me a lot”

That he wants to know “if I understand what he means”

That he “is a bisexual”

That he “would, very much, like to make love to [me] some time.”

That “this has to stay between us”

That I don’t respect people’s secrets on the internet

Now, I know a lot of you are staring at the computer screen with your jaw down and your hand in stuck in mid-motion down your pants (because I realize that all of you also masturbate while reading my blog like I do) saying: “H2$, you don’t need to resort to lying to make your life more interesting,” but this actually happened, word for word. I said something to the effect of “Well, I’m not… y’know a bisexual… so… sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow at work!” immediately called the first friend I thought of and left a message that consisted of “uh… I … I don’t know … just call me back because something crazy just happened.”  a couple of times repeated (She called me back telling me that if I had been a girl she would have assumed that I had just been raped based on my voicemail). The reason I bring this up is because it gave me cause to analyze a long term dream of mine. Finally I had, in a sense, become the female in the Woody Allen movie. I was being pursued by the awkward yet straightforward older man as I was the hot young meat with something to learn about the ways of the world. Sure there are differences between Woody Allen and my admirer like his multiple swastika tattoos, his long term job slicing meat, and his previous stint in prison, but on a very basic level the story seems similar. I was flattered, and not actually that creeped out or scared. Having worked with him for two weeks, I knew/hoped he wouldn’t do any stalkeresque things near my window, and he seemed genuinely fearful to tell me his feelings for me which set me at ease. But, I did feel uncomfortable, and it was because I’m not used to being what I’ve always desired to be.

I’ve always wanted to be Annie Hall, or Liz Lemon, or anyone else on this list but now that I am that seductress I recognize the feelings of guilt that go with rejecting a desperate plea for love. While I’ve wanted to be that girl, I strongly relate to that guy who puts it all on the table with his dignity thrown to the wind because gosh darnit, it doesn’t matter what she says, it just matters that I say it, and I feel bad for him when he gets rejected and mad at the girl who just doesn’t understand what he just went through to put that all out on the line. No more. That girl is put in a shitty situation. I had to go to work the next day, and when he told me that I shouldn’t bend over to pick up cups in front of him because it was just getting his dick hard it made me uncomfortable. Not because I felt like an object, that I’m fine with, but because I had no response. I could respond by saying that I was not interested and he needs to move on, but that feels mean to do and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I could respond by flirting back, but then I’m a tease. I’m stuck in this catch-22 of silent acceptance, and when you take away a person’s ability to disagree you are taking away their agency, and that’s what teen movie archetypes do: they take away a woman’s agency. (Didn’t think I would spin the creepo trying to force me to bed with him into a rant on sexist archetypical representations in teen movies, did you? Well you thought incorrectly.)

After my run in with the horny, toothless, neo-nazi I was approached by multiple other members of my work crew. Not with nearly as sexual desires, but still with expressions of joy and admiration for me. My boss offered me a near double in my salary to stay, the meat-manager told me I was the best person that had ever worked there, my co-worker told me he was going to cry tomorrow when I wasn’t there, and the ex-con told me that he loved me and asked for a hug (multiple times).

So, what did I learn, overall:

That the place I most readily accepted and even revered is a place full of racists, pedophiles, perverts, and Ukrainians (and we all know Ukrainians rape insects).