Monday, November 2, 2015

Currently Eating 11.2.15


I didn't know what else to do for this week's work theme, so I directly transcribed my thoughts from the two shifts I worked this week. I apologize in advance.
- . -
Day 1
I know what I can't eat. That would be the salmon. I guess I'll have to...fish for my Omega-3s somewhere else. God.

So it's a burger for me. Cheeseburger with cheddar cheese. I'm a slut for cheddar cheese. [Cheeeeese, Gromit]

Goddamn. Chef gave me American. Hate me if you want for having such first world problems, but... Nah, no excuse. I hate me for my first world problems.

Jeez, does anyone ever eat at this restaurant? Perhaps the rain is washing all the customers away. Not that I mind. People don't call me Lazy Lexi for a reason. Actually, they don't call me that. Eww, what have I done?

If you've ever worked as a waitress or bartender at a solidly mediocre bar/restaurant, you'll know how goddamn depressing it can be. Anywhere where corporate and civil America drowns their sorrows in alcohol is bound to crush your still-young capitalist dream grapes. See, this is what you get, Alex, for being capitalist skum (capitalist dream grapes, apparently). Hey, I have to make it or break it as a mountain hermit somehow. (But the point of that career was that it didn't require money...)

Whatever, I'll end up packing my bags and living on a commune that only eats bananas in some vague tropical nation that I don't know the name of because I am also Caucasian skum. 

You don't need to be self-hating Alex; you held open a door for someone today!

I thought that drinking chamomile tea would somehow help...something? I think my upbringing is showing--tea cures every illness. Tea and garlic. Doctors are for the weak! (I don't actually believe that but I'll be damned if I don't inhale every garlic clove within a 3-mile radius before I go a-calling on my 120-year-old general practitioner) ...I'm not even sick; I think I just wanted chamomile tea. Good grief.

I'd like to make a confession. Sometimes I put my own food order under that of a nonexistent table because I don't want the chef to know that I alone am consuming an order of mozzarella sticks, a Caesar salad, and a burger. No one needs to know this. ...Except, apparently, all my readers.

Oh God, the cleaning man has been staring at me for the past couple of minutes. He knows something, doesn't he? He always looks at me as if I'm an alien from the Planet Glutton. Oh wait, but I am.

~no judgment~

Two more hours. Jesus. Someone will walk in at 8:50PM and my will to live will exit stage left. See, if I could've had the salmon, none of this would've happened. 

Oh wait, none of that did happen. I'm going to watch Markiplier be a banana until my hand stops cramping. (I see the 'banana' has become a theme in my writing. It's time for psychoanalytic reading of this piece. Diagnosis: penis envy.)

I literally have to sit at this booth for the next two hours, jumping higher than Donald Trump's ego every time the door even twitches (for fear of missing customers).

Remind me never to watch "Shrek is love, Shrek is life" at work ever again. Like, ever.

Sure enough, only customer of the night comes in at 8:25PM. And it's that guy from two weeks ago who kept talking at me with his friend for two hours. And I can't excuse myself from him because I'm literally subservient. People really get off on power, don't they. Maybe the Mets and the Royals will be more captivating for him. Maybe.

He's really spending a lot of time in the bathroom... Oh ew, Alex. TMI. Maybe if I scribble fast enough he'll think I'm writing some Nobel Literature contender and leave me alone. Pfft, in your dreams, Alex. All he knows about you so far is that you're 19-years-old and you hate ("hate is a strong word, Alex"-- I know) psychology majors. (To all my psychology major friends: yes, you too. Just kidding. Maybe.)

Do you think I can make it through the next half hour? This is the home stretch (aw yeah, look at you and your baseball terminology. You're practically Daniel Murphy! Not.)

Don't make eye contact don't make eye contact don't make eye contact don't make eye contact.

Pro tip: when you're hunched over, writing furiously, eye contact is nearly impossible. Unless he actually placed his face, eyeballs up, right on this paper. Ugh. 

If I hide my book, maybe he won't see and ask about it. Last time, he bragged for a solid 15 minutes about how each book he reads is at least 500 pages (compared to my school assigned 200 page books). Listen. Twilight was 500 pages. And there wasn't any quality in all that awkward sniffing and sparkly chests.

Day 2
Guys, things are serious today. Business is so slow at the restaurant that I may lose my job in a couple of months. Not good. You see, I've been saving up for this awesome trip next summer. It has to happen.

Where would I work, if not here? It's actually pretty great here for a waitress--pay is above minimum wage, and I get to keep tips (when there are tips).

I see people through the door look at the menu then walk away. Customers have been leaving more and more food on their plates. Less people at the bar.

What am I currently eating? A chicken club sandwich, because the burgers aren't good anymore and there's no cheddar cheese.

I just realized that the entirety of what I've written today so far could be the lyrics of a really bad country song.

The End.

Well, those are what my thoughts are like, at work specifically.

Thank you for reading, and, as always, I'll see you in the next post!

Alex

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