Poverty Princess VS The Real F*cking World

Chapter 3 – Part 2

How do you solve a problem like pre-morbid anxiety?

I was done.

Or should I say, “Estaba harto”.

The only two other phrases I had mastered at this point were, “Soy demasiado para esta mierda”“I am too much for this shit” and “A veces quiero pegarte en la cara” – “Sometimes I want to punch you in the face”.

However at this point in life I am sick to death of quitting things so I’ve became incredibly stubborn with a determination to finish them. No matter how much they make me want to die.

So instead of fleeing back home I decided to stay until the end and in the process lost my:

  • Self-respect.
  • Dignity.
  • Ability to hold food down for more than two hours.
  • Ability to hold a conversation in English let alone Spanish.
  • Ability to make a decision for myself.
  • Fucks to give about my physical appearance.
  • General will to live.

I was living of Aldi’s finest pizzas (3 for €1.99), ice pops and a minimum of 20 Camel cigarettes a day. I moved in with my dear friend Sami and her boyfriend Eric, without who I would have probably been found washed up on a beach somewhere – if I had  actually gone to one in the 9 months that I was there, that is.

So now on top of everything else I now faced the challenge of trying to live without an adult over the age of 30 to cater to my every need for the first time. I can now cook frozen chicken and clean up kitten diarrhoea, without projectile vomiting.

Shout-out to Cuca. I never thought I would have a more tumultuous relationship with anyone other that my mother. I was so wrong. Again.

Enter the 3 week old kitten who’s main hobbies were:

  • Biting and scratching every human body part accessible, including a mole on my inner thigh.
  • Pooping outside of her litter box.
  • Playing hide and seek – behind the fridge.
  • And my personal favourite; faking medical emergencies when I was home alone -leading to me crying, chain smoking and screaming “AYUDA POR FAVOR” on the balcony. At least once a week.

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But in the words honour of that Carnie’s tattoo from ‘We’re the Millers’, ‘NO RAGRETS’.

I gained three friends for life and I lived and I learnt a 1000 life lessons.

After three months of constantly checking EasyJets website, June 22nd arrived and my time in a town that consisted of only an Aldi and one decent club, that only opened two months before I left, was over.

I did not properly cry once the whole time I was there, but I did break down in the airport, holding my two friends adoptive parents full-time carers  guardian f*cking angels for dear life, and did not stop till I landed back in Liverpool.

I was broken, I was ashamed and, worst of all, I was back living in f*cking Speke.

My priority was sorting out my mental health but I was also very aware of the fact I had spent my last cents (and sense) on a sleeve of Camel cigarettes in Duty-Free.

I needed money.

The only problem was I didn’t have enough confidence to hold a conversation with friends I had known since I was eleven years old, let alone turn up to a job interview.

I couldn’t even sign up for JSA, (something I had always refused to do  due to the fact that I was able to work but I just couldn’t seem to find the right place and when I did they didn’t want me), because I hadn’t technically lived in the country long enough.

Therefore when a friend popped up telling me she had an induction at a recruitment agency and was told she could bring friends along; I jumped at the opportunity.

Clearly they were desperate and were likely to overlook the fact I didn’t even have the energy in me to apply moisturiser, let alone highlight and contour for the induction.

Three months later and here I am typing this article soaked in rain having been turned away from a shift despite making sure my hair and make-up were f*cking perfection and sprinting from one end of city centre to the other, in what can only be described as an outright downpour.

Well, I was soaked when I started but this is page six 5000 of my word document and it’s been about two hours days, so I’ve pretty much air dried by now, like Shelley in the House Bunny.

Luckily, I have currently got a grip on my mental health, started attending stress management classes regularly practice deep breathing and I am back in the full time care of my future wife. Jenny Hollis what’s good!?

However, 50% of the shifts with this agency have helped me to understand Britney’s 2007 breakdown a little bit more.

Whether it’s turning up for the minibus to travel to a job and being told they’ve overbooked your shift and you will be going home right there and then with two hours pay, or even better; getting told that only the coach is full and that you can get the 45 minute train journey to the location where there is work waiting for you, only to be sent away seconds after arriving.

Getting there isn’t the only problem. After being promised organised transport home from a location, where you have previously had to pay £18 in a taxi to get home from, it’s not exactly the perfect end to a 12 hour shift of 5* table service (which you were put forward for even though you haven’t even mastered 1* yet) to then have to fork out another £21 (three hours wages) as the organised transport is not so surprisingly; none-existent.

My favourite experience of all was being called on a Friday night and being begged to work the next day, despite the fact I was on my way to plans that involved me being white girl wasted till at least 4 in the morning. I crumbled under the pressure of not wanting to bite the hand that fed me. I was then asked if I would like to be a team leader, a team leader in a location that I have worked at twice before with zero training and zero experience. My exact response was ‘God … no’.

I crawled off the mini bus at the venue the next day. I needed to burp, fart, pee, poop and vomit – the fact my pants were cutting off my circulation certainly wasn’t helping the situation.

I thought it best to collect my uniform first so it would look less suspicious that I was locked in a toilet cubicle for a good five minutes. As they handed me my lovely polo neck they also handed over that fact that I was in  fact – team leading.

Fearing that I was about to recreate the infamous scene from the Exorcist all over my supervisor, I had no chance to argue as I had to ‘haul ass to the ladies’.

Several hours later my shit was well and truly lost.

Now I know this may all sound pretty amusing put paired with being underpaid and constantly frustrated, due to their complete lack of organisation and communication skills, I fear that my time in hospitality is coming to an end.

As is this article as I really need have smoked a 1000  cigarettes editing it and need to have a long, tall glass of water and sit down.

Here is my simple request, although I have secured full time employment starting January, this bitch is hoping to fund a long weekend return to f*cking Manresa – for what I can only describe as a comeback tour that I don’t think Kickstarter will successfully fund.

I know this article may not shed my working life in the best light, but I’ve lived and I’ve learnt .

So if you fancy giving a full time princess a job, holla.

Also any sugar daddies looking for a spontaneous marriage; holla louder.

I’m going to end with a quote, dedicated to my recruitment agency, from an inspirational lady with a ‘big fat ass’ who came from Trinidad,

“Don’t make me expose you bitch I’m too busy”

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