Today, she called in again, claiming her “condition” had worsened. Two hours later, I saw her Instagram story: beach chair, toes in the sand, a margarita in hand, captioned “Needed this 💆‍♀️.”

Customers started pouring in, each one more unhinged than the last. “Price check on this pack of gum!” screamed Karen #1, waving it like it was a life-or-death situation. Meanwhile, Chad in a Patagonia vest threw a fit over avocados not being ripe enough.

By noon, the lines stretched to the frozen food section. Sweat dripping, I called for backup, but HR just replied with their usual: “FMLA protects her, Evan. Legally, our hands are tied.”

Tabitha posted again around 3 PM. This time, it was a boomerang of her clinking glasses with the caption: “Healing vibes 🌞🍹.” Healing from what? Apparently, she’d ordered a second round.

Meanwhile, I was stocking shelves like a lunatic while a child screamed bloody murder over a spilled Slurpee in aisle 5. A BBW zipped past me on a motorized cart, knocking over an endcap of cereal boxes. I briefly wondered if Tabitha’s margarita had a plus-one.

Locked up alone at 11 PM, poured myself a glass of boxed wine, and whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630839&forum_id=2Elisa#48314693)