Panic.

Panic attacks at work, with everyone watching, are no fun. They are especially no fun with you dump your duffel bag sized purse onto the ground and tear through its contents looking for your xanax only to find gum wrappers, recipes, paycheck stubs, and tampons, and all your bosses just happen to be standing there. I thought I was gonna have a double attack and die right there. At least some people are apprised to my "issues" without me having to come out and say, "Hey, I have anxiety. That's why I ask for so many cigarette breaks, and that's why I go missing for 10 minutes at a time in the bathroom." When you do that, it seems people are less likely to take you serious, and more likely to think that you made up some bullshit to get out of work. I don't want attention; I just don't want to be treated like a child. I don't want to have to say that I go to the bathroom, not to text, but to break down and cry. I need a new job, seriously. A sit down, office job. I don't care if it's a high stress job, I like a challenge. I just don't like to mix bodily stress, with aggravation from doing repitious tasks while watching a line never shorten. If you haven't guessed it, I'm a cashier... at a grocery store. Gawd awful. But, it pays the rent.

I got mad a J today. For no reason other than the fact that I was grumpy and depressed and needed someone to take it out on. We did, however, make up. We watch Prince Caspian, and ate Stouffer's, and gave each other smooches. How sweet!

Oh, next week, I'm applying for food stamps. I'm actually going to go into a step by step account of how difficult the process actually is. J and I applied before, but we were denied. I have lost some in the wage department and gained in the expenses department, so, we'll see how it goes.