I was already behind in my tables. I don’t think you realized it, but I had 50 to cover that night. There were only four of you, but you managed to make your orders as demanding, ridiculous, and insulting as possible. OK, lady on my right, in the back? You want your pie scooped into three balls? Of PIE? What’s wrong with the traditional, you know, triangular PIE shape? Lady on my right, in the front, do I know what kind of charcoal we use in our grill? You know what’s crazy? I actually don’t! And no, I can’t check if they’re gluten free or not because that question is too maniacal to answer. Luckily, I managed not to lose my mind, even as I heard one of you say as I walked away, “She’s just mad at the inflation. Everyone just wants nicer things now.”
Back in the break room, I vented to my fellow waitresses. They nodded their heads and were not at all surprised by my story. They looked tired. It dawned on me were were types of whores. “You should write a blog about it,” Candy offered, “you could use your calculator right now.”
She meant phone. So here I am. Get out of my dreams, you fucking pretentious, I-just-moved-here-from-California figments of my imagination. I was dating Hugh Grant before all of this.