You know that feeling when you're just going through the motions, right? Like, you're physically there, doing the thing, but your brain is so far removed it might as well be on another planet. That's been me lately, especially at work. I'm a part-timer, just trying to make rent in this ridiculously expensive city, and my main gig is wrestling with clothing racks that look like a tornado hit them. Or, more accurately, like a hundred teenagers had a wrestling match in the dressing rooms and then decided the floor was a better place for their discards than the actual hangers. And I just... stopped. Mid-shift today, I was staring at a pile of crumpled graphic tees, all "vintage" and probably polyester, that someone had lovingly tossed on the floor next to a display of perfectly folded denim, and I just couldn't bring myself to fix it. My brain literally flatlined. It was like, "Nope. Not today, Satan. Not today, messy consumer." And then, of course, my manager walks by, right? Sarah, sweet Sarah, who probably thinks I'm some kind of retail angel, always putting things back in their proper place. And she stops, gives me this huge smile, and says something like, "Thanks for being such a reliable team member, [my name]. We really appreciate how you always keep things looking so good." And I just... smiled back. A big, fake, plastered-on smile while inside I was laughing hysterically and also maybe wanting to throw up a little. Because I had literally, five minutes before, decided to actively *not* fix something that was glaringly wrong. I was standing there, a living, breathing testament to the chaos of the universe, and she's thanking me for my "reliability." The irony of it all. It was so absurd, I almost burst out laughing right there, just to see the confusion on her face. Imagine, just erupting with maniacal laughter in the middle of a department store. That would be a sight. It’s just… you get to this point where you’re so tired of the performance, of pretending to be invested in things you truly couldn’t care less about. Like, I'm supposed to care about the proper folding technique for a rayon blend shirt? I’m supposed to feel a deep sense of accomplishment from color-coordinating a rack of sweaters? And the worst part is, I used to! I used to actually take pride in making things look nice, in feeling like I was contributing. Now it just feels like… well, like I’m a fraud. A really good fraud, apparently, because Sarah thinks I'm reliable. And maybe that's the real joke, right? That you can just coast on the fumes of past efforts and still get praised for it. It makes you wonder what else you're faking, what other areas of your life are just smoke and mirrors, a carefully constructed illusion for the benefit of unsuspecting onlookers. God, I need a drink. Or maybe I just need to actually fix those damn graphic tees before someone trips over them. Nah. Probably a drink.