Amazon Peak 2014

I’m exhausted. I’m tired, anxious, and perturbed as I celebrate the close of “Peak Season” at, Whitestown.

I’m tired because 60-hour weeks at means ten hour days at six days per week for three weeks. That’s eighteen workdays out of twenty-one calendar days. That’s work that makes me loopy, and math that makes me stupid.

I’m anxious because the lack of rest has rendered me emotionally warped and in pain. I’m all but bereft of inhibition. I want to snap on somebody, but I know that would be wrong. Besides, it would probably be somebody at work. They’d be just as crazy as I am, and I’m fairly certain that everybody in the building can kick my ass.

There’s a three-way tie for what most perturbs me about “Peak 2014”. First, the number of men I’ve seen primping in the bathrooms is not only disturbing it’s nauseating. Dude, your braids are too frizzy, your facial hair will never grow in like a grown man’s, and do us all a favor and bathe every now and then.

Second, at least twice a day you virtually have to take a ticket to get into a bathroom commode. That’s right. I often crap twice a day at work. Fourteen miles of fast walking daily promotes a high metabolic rate. Shitting is what the commode is for, not napping.

Third, I’ve seen more ass-crack during “Peak 2014” than I’ve seen in the ten years preceding it. Anywhere. Wearing ill-fitting clothes is a personal choice. Work at, however, requires a great deal of squatting, stooping, and bending. Excuse me if I’m offended by constantly viewing the gateways to your respective shit factories.

Working at is an adventure, really. The money is decent, so a fiscally responsible person is inclined to stay. Learning how the facility works, however, is like watching a soap opera in a foreign language. You kind of get the gist of what’s going on, but, damn, you really would like to understand the words being spoken. It’s often like trying to figure out the freemasons or the illuminati.

I guess what I’m saying here is that eighteen ten hour work days out of twenty one days at is like eyelid piercings, lipsticked lip print tattoos on the neck, and reality shows featuring celebrities. It’s just too much. There was a temp guy working the shipping dock with a fully grilled mouth. It was all I could do to not throw a handful of magnates at his face.

“Peak of 2013”, I was still fresh at less than six months in the fields. I survived. “Peak of 2014”, I was angry almost every day. I laughed and joked, but prayed daily that nobody would see the pain behind my eyes. I survived again. For “Peak of 2015”, I’m wondering whether or not the first mention of the word “peak” would warrant a well-placed bullet in my own brain.