I think I have senioritis.
Not an allergy to the elderly - although I used to think I had that too, back when I worked the breakfast shift at George Webb's. Upon further reflection, I'm pretty sure that was just a burning hatred for this old guy Fred, who was as close to an arch-nemesis as I'm ever likely to have. (The whole time I worked there, he ate breakfast and lunch there every day, and he sent something back every meal. There were also menacing glares and, at least once, he pointed his fork at me in a threatening manner.)
No, my senioritis is in the I'm-a-senior-in-high-school-and-I-just-don't-give-a-shit-anymore sense.
Now that I've put my notice in, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to care about a job I hated in the first place. I'm about three seconds from saying "to hell with it" and leaving all day. At this point, a stubbed toe would probably put me over the edge.
Double that for this move. I capital-h Hate our customer.
It started with the second thing out of her mouth: "I have to ask you not to play with our dogs. They're very rare." Which is A. fairly wtf if you ask me, and B. probably just an excuse to point out that her dogs are expensive.
But the big thing was how she treated her daughter. Her thirteen-year-old "adopted Russian daughter." Whose name is Tori. I had to ask the daughter what her name is, because Mom doesn't introduce her by name.
She introduces her as, "my adopted Russian daughter." Always. To the cable guy. To the new neighbors. To the movers. To everyone. I heard the phrase at least a dozen times.
Which would irritate me on its own, since it reeks of bragging about her own altruism while hammering home to the daughter just how adopted she is. But it sucks extra because the daughter is pretty awesome.
In her room, I found a collage she did for art class. I barely consider collages to be art, but this thing was amazing.
She used a bunch of images about her life, all of which had lines in them: a razor-wire fence, a pregnant belly with that line they get, a jet contrail, a girl on a tight-rope, etc. And she glued them together so that the lines connected perfectly - it was one long line. At first all tight together, but slowly loosening until it was a thin little line with all these knots - drawings of knots, photos of knots, actual knots glued to the paper. Then the line disappears off the page.
Flip it over and the line continues to the center of the page, where, in letters so small I had to squint to see, it said, "I wonder if I'll ever see my mother again."
This is a thirteen-year-old.
Despite an apparent fondness for expensive art, it was stashed in her daughter's closet along with a bunch of great paintings she did. And she insisted on calling her "my adopted Russian daughter" not "my daughter who does awesome and heartbreaking works of art" or something. (Of course, that would've irritated me in a whole other way. But still.)
That and a bad habit of saying things like, "I'd like to see the entertainment center upstairs to see how it looks, but it's probably going in the basement." and I basically spent all day fantasizing about hitting her in the face with a ball-peen hammer and jumping the next plane for LA.
So that's pretty much where I'm at with work.
Since "sociopathic tendencies" sounds so ugly, I'm calling it senioritis.