I need to quit jobs more often

"I spit on my fingers," she said.
My last day at my resort job: seven hours on a golf cart with rain and wind blowing sideways making hot chocolates for golfers my coworker tells to, "get their brains checked," giving a Coors Lite to VIP brother-of-a certain-sportswear-brand CEO -- I'm the only one who does not acknowledge this as a big deal (his framed picture with blinking Christmas lights adorns the office behind the front desk).
My last day at said resort job I was not allowed to wear my pea-coat or beanie because they're not adorned with a resort jobs logo. An over sized wind breaker is offered which does nothing to retain heat. I hover my hands in a turbo oven and dunk them in the soapy dish water persuading the blood it is safe to return.
And at the end of the day, my supervisor is counting cash and spitting on her fingers. Spit is glistening on the money and I turn away.
Driving home, I hope my interview tomorrow morning goes well.
No. I am bargaining with God as I drive home.