(It is a somewhat quiet evening. A customer comes in, and I greet her. My manager is standing nearby, and once the customer is out of earshot, she informs me that the customer is well-known for being rude and to call her if I need help. Sure enough, once the customer finishes shopping, she starts.)

Customer: *slams the first of many items onto the counter* “You need to get the manager up here now, because I need a discount.”

Me: *surprised* “Yeah, sure, let me page her now.”

(I page her and ring out the rest of the customer’s items as quickly as I can. My manager walks up from the back.)

Manager: “Hi, what can I help you with?”

Customer: “I need a discount. I have a coupon on my card, but it doesn’t show up when I try to print it, and you need to do something about it.”

(When this happens, it is almost always customer error; either the wrong email is linked to their store card, or they never set one up at all. We will generally input the coupon as long as the customer can show us the email that contains the coupon. Even if the customer can’t get the email up, we will still put it in under special circumstances — if they are buying a decent amount of stuff, are a regular customer, etc.)

Manager: “Okay, that’s fine. Can you pull up the coupon on your phone? I need to see the coupon to be able to put it in.”

Customer: *raising her voice* “WELL, I can try but I don’t know if it’ll work. You need to give me a discount because I spend a lot of money here, and this is unacceptable!”

Manager: *I can tell she is getting agitated* “All right, well, just try to pull that up, because we cannot give discounts without actually seeing the coupon in some form.”

Customer: “Well, I spend a lot of money here!”

(She clicks around on her phone for a minute or two and is able to bring the coupon up, and my manager puts it in and the customer finally pays and leaves.)

Manager: “You know, it’s a good thing she had her coupon, because I wasn’t going to give her the discount if she didn’t. She could have flipped out all she wanted, but I’ll be d***ed if I’m going to reward her s***ty behavior. Oh, and as for spending a lot of money here, she comes in maybe once a month…”

(It’s 5:30 am, and I’m just about to leave to go to work after having a rough morning. I’m a nurse with a 12-hour shift to look forward to. As I’m getting my shoes on, my roommate emerges from her room, chipper and perky.)

Roommate: “Good morning, [My Name]!”

Me: *groaning* “Well, it’s morning, at least.”

Roommate: *suddenly angry* “Well, jeez, who peed in your cornflakes this morning? I was trying to be nice!”

Me: “I told you last night that I had to be up at four am this morning, and the friends you invited over made so much noise that it woke me up… and they stayed until 12:30. I took two steps out of my room this morning, and your cat sank her claws into my leg, deep enough to draw blood, and started yowling because she thought I was going to feed her. I finally got to the bathroom and found that your other cat had clawed my brand-new towels down from the rack and taken a dump on them. Now I get to go spend 12 hours wiping the butts of people who either think I’m attacking them, or think I’m their long-dead wife. That’s why it’s ‘morning’ and not ‘good morning.’”

Roommate: “Well, there’s no need to be a b**** about It!”

(I’d been thinking about moving out for a while, but that was the final nail in the coffin. I moved in with my boyfriend just as soon as I could get my stuff packed, and eighteen months later, we still get along just fine. We have a dog; after my roommate’s little monsters, I have no desire at all to get a cat. Last I heard, she still had trouble with them pooping on her bed and linens.)

(It is a few weeks from the end of the school year. Some classmates and I are in a study class with students from a few years below, as both of our scheduled teachers are out sick. Everyone is quietly studying. I am normally very shy and quiet, but I really dislike the teacher overseeing us, as she is a bully. She suddenly turns on a younger student.)

Teacher: “[Student #1], detention!”

Student #1: “Huh? What? What did I do?”

Teacher: “Dyed hair is against the school uniform policy.” *the student has dyed her hair bright red*

Student #1: “Oh, I didn’t know. Can we not dye our hair?”

Teacher: “Did I stutter? I said it’s against the uniform policy”.

Student #1: “But it’s been this colour all year.”

Teacher: “That’s two detentions now, and more if you keep talking back to me!”

Me: “Excuse me, miss, but where in the policy does it say that dyed hair is against the rules? And what are the limitations of it? Because [Student #2] and [Student #3] both have dyed blonde hair, and [Student #4] has highlights.”

Teacher: “Do you want detention, as well?”

Me: “I guess I deserve it, because–” *pointing at head* “–my hair is the same colour as [Student #1]’s. I’ve never had detention for dying it, though.”

Teacher: “Urgh, fine!” *turning to [Student #1]* “Don’t think you’re off the hook. You still have detention, because all those disgusting piercings in your face are against the uniform policy.”

Me: *reading uniform policy* “Miss, is there an extended uniform policy somewhere? Because in our student handbook it just says, ‘Students must wear the uniform,’ and nothing else.”

Teacher: “[My Name], you are really trying my patience today.”

Me: “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be troublemaker but–” *pointing at face* “–I have more piercings than [Student #1], and I’ve never had detention for those, either. I’m not the only one with piercings, either. I don’t think it’s fair to discipline one student for something and not another. It almost seems you’re picking on [Student #1].”

Teacher: *shouting* “[My Name]! Principal’s office, NOW!”

(I went to the office and explained the situation to the principal. Our school is quite liberal, and they had purposely left the uniform policy vague so that we could still express ourselves. Apparently, [Student #1] was being bullied and made a complaint to the school. One of the bullies was the child of the teacher in question. The principal was very interested to hear how the teacher was acted and promised he would look after it. [Student #1] later thanked me for standing up for her. We ended up becoming good friends!)

When I was in elementary school, my parents had an obsessive conviction that I must never be allowed to stay home alone during summer vacation, even though they were perfectly fine with letting me stay home alone on a regular basis during the school year.

They always signed me up for every single multi-week summer “camp” available, the ones where kids go or are bused somewhere in the morning and return in the afternoon, like with school.

This happens when I’m about 11. My parents both work, so they’ve signed me up for a camp where kids spend the whole day in a water-park, mostly under the sun non-stop, wearing only swimsuits.

One night before bedtime, Mom plugs some kind of new bug-repelling device she’s just bought into an electric outlet in my bedroom.

When I wake up, I’m covered head to toe in large, swollen, red, and extremely itchy hives. They are absolutely everywhere. I look like a horror movie monster and can’t stop scratching.

Mom examines me, and declares that it must be “just” an allergic response to the bug repellent, and that it is “not a big deal.” I must still go to camp as usual. She doesn’t even try to put any kind of lotion on me or do anything.

I protest having to go anywhere in this condition, as I feel terrible and look frightening.

Mom insists, and derides me for being a baby and whining. She repeats that it’s clearly not a big deal.

It’s clear to me that she just wants to go to work as usual, doesn’t want to be bothered today with taking an ill child to a doctor, and still refuses to let me stay home on my own despite me being too sick to go out. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

Being at the water-park is awful. The chemicals in all the pools and being in the hot sun all irritate and inflame the hives further. As nearly my entire body is exposed in the swimsuit, all the other children look at me with contempt and disgust. Pointing and whispering quickly begins, and I become the target of relentless teasing.

There are very few adults around, and none of them notice or care about anyone being unwell unless they’re clearly dying; most of them are either lifeguards at the pools or people handing out our lunches and snacks, so anything outside that just isn’t their problem.

I spend the entire day absolutely unable to stop scratching everywhere and utterly miserable, while worrying that I have some awful disease — I’ve never had allergic reactions before in my life.

When I finally get home, my mom seems terribly surprised that the hives haven’t gotten any better and that I feel awful.

After some lengthy discussion, it’s decided they’ll actually let me see a doctor. Tomorrow. And Dad will be the one to take off work to take me.

The next day by midday the hives have finally began to partially reduce in size… as I haven’t been sent to a freaking water park today. The doctor I’m taken to says that it is in fact clearly an allergic reaction; most likely to that bug repellent device. And that I clearly should be kept in cool and dry conditions until it goes away: no more sun, chemicals, and dampness. And no more chemical bug repellents in my room.

My parents very begrudgingly allow me to stay home for a day or two after that. I can only remain grateful that this is the only time in my childhood I have had any kind of allergic reaction; otherwise, there’s even odds I’d be dead now.

Thanks so much, Mom, for your entire handling of this situation; your caring and consideration of my health will always stay in my heart.

Please don’t do this to your children.

(This little girl around seven years of age comes into our store with her mother. I spot them and joke with my fellow coworker, telling her she should take this order.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], this one’s all you.”

Coworker: “Nah, dude. It’s your turn.”

(I reluctantly agree and step up to the register to take their order. The little girl speaks in an extremely condescending tone. It seems she heard what I said to my coworker.)

Girl: “I agree; you should let her do it.”

(I do a double-take, a little shocked.)

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Girl: “You told her she should take my order. I agree. Let her do it.”

(The little brat’s mother doesn’t care at all about how her daughter is speaking to me. As my coworker is taking their order, the little girl continues to make rude, snide remarks.)

Coworker: *after taking the mother’s order, now speaking to the daughter* “All right, and what can I get for you?”

Girl: “Nothing. Your food sucks. I think I’ll stick to [Other Fast Food Chain], thanks.”

(I just walked away, shaking my head. This girl couldn’t have been more than seven years old, and she was treating both my coworker and me like she was our superior.)