Goodbye Regal!

I quit my job. I can't tell if it's because I really just hate Regal or because I think myself so above a minimum wage job that I gave into my instincts and said F--- the world (Ms. Marcy, please don't kill me, I can't hold back any longer, this is how I talk in the real world). But there is a deeper reason. Every time I work I get the feeling that the harder I work, the more the company makes, the less I ever see a dime of that money (and I can't accept tips) and the more customers snap at me for reasons unknown except for the fact that they need someone to snap at, and why not me, the worthless minimum wage employee?
Or it's more than That. It's that every time a customer opts to buy three small popcorns instead of one large tub, I die a little inside, "Do you know how dumb you are? I want to pity you but I can't because I'm too busy pitying myself for watching this." and of course, my managers tell us to push more. More. Make them buy, make them love you, make them drink the Regal juice, or just the half-filled cup of instant coffee that our machine cranks out after you spit into the top of it (we don't really do that, but sometimes I am nice and press the button twice-- but only if you happen to be a cripple).
And then the intervention. The life intervention. The only analogy or explanation for this intervention I can find is Mersault, the day his boss promotes him, or more accurately, the time he is on trial for his entire life's misdeeds. The conversation went something like this, "We really like you. You're a really strong employee. But lately we have noticed your apathetic attitude. You don't upsell or push the Two for Ten combo. If you really hate it here, we suggest we quit before we fire you." What I'm really thinking, "Honestly, we sent you to Paris and back and you don't care anymore." So yeah, the real reason I quit my job? I sacrificed wonderful, carefree weekends and lovely, snow covered holidays to save for France. I did everything for Regal except lick the hot dog buns to keep them from growing stale. And then I got to France, I was in Paris, it was all happening-- and the same consumerism that sends me into a blind rage every time I am behind a register made a comeback again-- that these awful teenage girls would rather sit in a shopping mall and wander around drinking nutella shots (I am talking about myself here) than visit the catacombs. Or that our tour guide would have the audacity to forget to check the schedule for the Louvre. Or that I could spend a year of my time drained into Regal with the prospect of something better, that when I got something disappointing, I couldn't stomach the punch-drunk stained walls or the plush acid-trip carpeting because, quite frankly, I don't care anymore. So I quit.
And guess what? It made me happy. For those two seconds I was inscribing my initials on to my two weeks notice and throwing the shirt over my back, to the minutes I sat in my car and thought, "Holy S--- I'm broke" But that's okay because today I applied to the Tilted Kilt (Scottish themed Hooters) and I am honestly excited for a change.
p.s. Ms. Marcy-- after that speech you gave us today, I thought about how irresponsible I am/was because my dad does not have a job and neither does my mom, so right now we are hippies. And I kind of can't wait for college when I can just be a hippy. I guess the best thing to do would be to invest in a Kindle now because at some point before these next four years are up, my text books will be available online for three bucks.