Confessions of a...

Gas Station Attendant.

Just a few things we need to you know, or we know you know, or we think you know but will never understand...

I am not a meteorologist. I have learned that if I don't look up the weather forecast before work that I will suffer scorns and doubt regarding my worthiness of a human being.
I am not a tomtom. I did, however, casually (regrettably, sarcastically, girlishly) fall in love with a fellow of the same name. In any case, I might give you incorrect directions, but probably not. Just because I am female does not mean that you need to negate everything I tell you and go find a 47 year old balding male to ask (who will undoubtedly give you the same directions as I).
I will not give you matches. Why? We don't have any. Why? Are you paying for them? I didn't think so.
We are not public dumping grounds. Please keep your fish guts, toenails, ashtray inhabitants, and gallon jugs of mayonnaises to yourself. They stink, they're gross, they start on fire, and they are just plain weird. (Not. Even. Lying.)
I am not stupid. I do not hate my job. I probably don't have anything better to do than work on a Friday night, no. I'm sorry that you think less of me. I probably don't like you for that.
I have favorites.
I love vacuuming every night.
Even though I say "it's ok" that you just walked on my freshly mopped floor, it really makes me sad inside.
Yelling at me doesn't get you anywhere.

IF you are 40 years old, you should be versatile enough to pump gas from any type of pump. I will come out and help you, but please don't swear at me. You pushed the help button, so that's what I'm doing. I'm even ballsy enough to say that anyone with a driver's license should be that versatile.
(more to come.)