I Have A Shitty Job

Despite all my attempts to find design work, I find myself working 35 hours a week at a Blockbuster video store.
It's not as shitty as some jobs, but it's way shittier than I can tolerate for more than eight hours at a stretch, and not much of a reason to get up in the morning. It takes about 10 minutes to walk to the train, another 20 to get into the city, and another 20 to get to the store. It's a long time to spend considering the shittiness of my job, both before and after each shift.
The shittiness is partly acknowledged by my co-workers, or at least those intelligent enough to differentiate between grinding out each day and actually living. My manager fails to see this distinction. While not actually stupid, he lacks clarity and in all is rather hobbit-like, drifting gently around in a fog of contentment. The next most senior in our disparate Blockbuster family is genuinely stupid. When her point is made in conversation, recognised, agreed upon, and completed, it is then repeated until it is recognised, agreed upon, and completed. Her general tone is that of a Holstein who has spent too much time in the same paddock and considers it her own.
It's not often you get the chance to use the term 'disgruntled former employee', but Aaron is now one. A short, pock-faced dynamo, his clipped speech always seemed to end with a sharp intake of breath, and his dignity was ever on a knife-edge. Two weeks ago a customer playfully slapped his shoulder. Aaron changed colour several times, marched into the manager's office, and quit. Bustling out with accoutrement akimbo, he made straight for the door and never looked back.
The previous store manager gradually reduced her responsibilities and hours, dropping down the ladder to the second-lowest rung over the course of four months. A benign and gentle soul, she once picked up a trail of ants with paper and dropped them outside rather than subject them to the capricious fate of the vacuum cleaner. Her rule has become corrupt and lackadaisical, much to my relief. I am free to learn nothing and engage in various busywork, periodically checking the time to ensure I am engaged in obligation no longer than I must be.

I apply for, on average, about four jobs per week. Since I arrived in Calgary in September I have sent over 70 resumes and received precisely three responses. Two were for interviews. (One of the interviews extended to a second interview. )The third response was to inform me that the position had been filled. Clearly, Calgary's economic miracle extends only to those professions that involve the potential loss of fingers, either to machinery or to frostbite.