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Despite the seemingly perpetual heat, work had been alright so far. Customers had an average amount of patience and tips were (shockingly) better than average for a Tuesday night — and it certainly helped the weather had cooled from a sweltering ninety-five to a much more manageable seventy-eight. It was the first time in over a week Jonah would be leaving work in a decent mood — but it wouldn’t stop the overwhelming weariness creeping behind his eyelids. And tonight? God, he had a paper to do tonight. Something he couldn’t just bullshit forty-five minutes before it was due. And that meant there was only one option — paying the coffee shop across the street from Pizza Hut a visit. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with The Human Bean’s
So as the morning Sun rose. The light beamed on Christopher's face. The warmth of the sun welcomed him to a new day and woke up in a small house in Los Angeles. Christopher is a tall, male, that loves technology and video games. He stretched and went to the restroom it was 9 o'clock and he was thankful it was spring break and didn’t have to go to school. Christopher made his way to the kitchen trying not wake up his parents and made himself breakfast. He served himself cereal Honey Bunches of Oats to be exact with almond milk. Then he took a shower and watched some YouTube videos before doing his homework.
It had been an extremely long and tiresome week at the fair, and it was written all over my face that I did not want to be there. Since Monday, a whole weeks worth of pay had gone towards gas, supplies for my pig and clothes to wear for the show. Today was different than any other day of fair; it was busy day of the livestock sale.
The most frequent target of his grievances is his work at Knox Business Machines, “The only reason I’m here in this halfassed job is because—well, I suppose there’s a lot of reasons, but here’s the point. If I started making a list of all the reasons, the one reason I damn sure couldn’t put down is that I like it, because I don’t” (179). During this discussion with his coworkers, Frank is unable to justify why he continues to work at a job he makes out to despise so much –because he doesn’t. In fact, he finds a peculiar comfort in his daily routine. From his morning train rides into the city, to meaningless conversations with his coworkers, to the seemingly mundane work he does, Frank wholeheartedly enjoys it. Yet, he is repelled by the mediocrity it symbolizes. Thus, Frank puts on a mask of complaints and pseudo intellectual phrases to conceal his
Ed Loyce, a forty-year-old man, was just having a regular routine. He washes up, get his clothes on, and heads across town toward his TV sales store. It was getting dark outside. The store had been opened without him and he’d arrived just in time to help for dinner.
“My name is Sadie Frowne. I work in Allen Street (Manhattan) in what they call a sweatshop. I am new at the work and the foreman scolds me a great deal. I get up at half-past five o’clock every morning and make myself a cup of coffee on the oil stove. I eat a bit of bread and perhaps some fruit and then go to work. Often I get there soon after six o’clock so as to be in good time, though the factory does not open till seven.
We run to the coffee shop to escape the breezy, frigid weather of mid 30 degrees. I laugh as Jenny almost runs into a bussiness man, and we continue to weave through people. When we arrive, I have to order for both us. “Hi Jenny, what can I get for you guys today?” the cashier asks.
Two men were working the front end, the cashier at register 3 was helping an older looking woman with a sun hat, Capri pants ,and far too much make up on, the other cashier was leaning on the bag rack behind him, enjoying a break in a slow day . Both of the clerks looked as if they were in their early twenties, definently townies, the townies hated summer vacationers. Townies never said a word to vacationers, and you could tell in their attitude; they all longed for Labor Day to roll around so everyone would go home, bringing peace to their little town again. My observations of the store and town politics were...
What is culture? Culture is the idea of what is wrong or right, the concept of what is acceptable within our society. Culture serves us as a guide, taking us to the "right way" and helping us to make sense of things that surrounds us. There are many different cultures around the world. A lot of them are similar in specific ways and others are just completely different, this difference explains why we think that people from different backgrounds are "weird".
In my words, Sociological imagination is a way for a person to look at their life as a result of their interaction with society. It can explain why a life is lived with way it is lived and all events, decisions, successes, and failures that have occurred. In my life I have encountered many situations, problems, opportunities and events. I can use my sociological imagination to examine these and figure out why I am the way I am and also why I have chosen to do certain things
This also intern creates Dark humor throughout the literary work. Placing the two opposing ideas next to each other demonstrates the extremes of life. “I finally start work tomorrow…fourteen hour days will be a killer” (Cortazar 363). The author creates a joyful tone for a while by mentioning that the character will have a job and make money but immediately kills t by mentioning the long work hours. This also helps to demonstrates how hard it is to survive on the daily basis.
WHEN I WAS a green bean in secondary school, I asked the straight kid I was infatuated with to show me how to take care of business. In my eyes, Quinn was the photo of certainty and manliness — I needed to be the sort of companion he could appreciate and regard. For the most part, I needed him to need me. Asian overachiever that I was, I drew closer my "manification" like some other task. On the off chance that I took in the guidelines, I could exceed expectations in manliness as I exceeded expectations in my studies.
Jimothy Collard walked down a vegetated, moldy, wooden path leading to his villa. It was the night of the third week of November and Jimothy came home from a long day of work. His house was about a quarter mile out in the marsh and his legs would ache every time he’d walk through it. He had no car because he had one job that could feed him, pay the shack, and his dog’s necessities. He was a skinny young man, forking for Vinny Gustavo, at an Italian bakery called “ V Bread”. He slithered through his house and slumped onto his bed. He thought and thought about quitting his job because it was a pain to work there. He whipped up some porridge and got a small portion of dog food for Bubb. They ate in silence, listening to the tall grass, swaying back and forth from the strong wind.
I pulled up to the front door of the two story house that glowed with the orange and yellow sunset behind it. With every slow step I took the thought of the Spencer and Lauren not liking me became more surreal. They were only two and four, but somehow their opinion mattered a lot to me. I got to the front door step and I admired the bright purple and red tulips that were flourishing in the lawn, and all of a sudden the door swung open. “You are early,” my future boss, Jennifer said with a surprised look on her face. I had not noticed, but she was right, I was twenty minutes early. When we met at the Arlington Heights Memorial Library she mentioned that she was always running late and that is was something she needed to work on.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she murmured nervously. “Just talk about your life, how you got here, your family, friends, anything that comes to mind,” I smiled across the small cafe table at her. “How I got here…” she repeated wistfully. “I started out with nothing,” she said, looking out the large window next to her towards the crowded street. “Whenever I would go to friends’ houses I would eat peanut butter with them, my family didn’t buy peanut butter.
“Bloody door bell!” I lift my head and look irritably towards the front door. Not that I can see the front door from where I’m sitting. The response is an automatic one. “I’m never going to get this finished,” I grumble. I stare at the screen, do a quick word count, 500 words. I need 5000 before I can submit the piece. I’ve got to get it finished, those bills on the side won’t pay themselves. It’s going to be one of those days, I just know it. Started off at breakfast, the milk was off, I burnt my mouth on the black coffee - that was the only option - I didn’t fancy finishing off the bottle of wine. Anyway 10 am is to early even for me to have a drinky poohs. To top it off I put my foot in the dogs water bowl and had to spend half an hour cleaning the kitchen floor. You see when I mopped up the spilt water it left a sparkling clean circle, on what I thought was an already clean floor. It’s eleven o’clock now and I’ve only just started writing.