Old job left wounds, fond memories
I can look down at my hands and see plenty of physical scars from my past life. Paper cuts, cardboard cuts, box cutter wounds, and the occasional pen stabbing. For almost seven years, I made my living working in a distribution center for a major office supply company—I hated it.
In my opinion, the company made irrational decisions; people were rewarded for brown nosing and not hard work, and employees were treated like cattle, not people. I literally gave blood and sweat to that place and received one promotion in seven years.
I was responsible for training new hires, maintaining my own numbers, manning multiple zones, which were designed to house three to four people at a time, and displaying the leadership that came with being a senior employee.
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