Tip Your Waitress

Well shit. I feel like shit. Pretty much the only time I write is when something is going wrong. Jobs aren’t for the weak. You get paid less than adequate to be abused by coworkers, managers, and customers; quite the four-way. I don’t want to be here. At this place where you are supposed to be chipper and if u aren’t then you don’t have the true spirit of the company. Why is it that when you encounter this your direct manager is a douche? Like you order a black T-shirt with the words “no regrets” bedazzled on the front and then the package you receive is a plain white T. You’ve been ripped off, they hid you from the shitty low brow managers and led you astray with the siren call and the smoke and mirrors of the upbeat managers you think you’re getting every day. Why not quit? Well. Becca, I’ll tell you; not everyone is lucky enough to have much choice in employment. Places tend to wipe their ass with your degree and push the rest of the selection process on looks and how white your name sounds.

Love life is still cramped. No one wants to commit and it’s too hard even though it shouldn’t be. Every gay seems to want to club and then gym then get rear-ended in public by multiple guys to prove how hot they are. There you have it, the dating pool I’m left with. All salty, salty with tears.

Drip drip down the drain or into your six-ounce glass and your two ice cubes because you’re too much of a pussycat to drink straight. Ironic, isn’t it? How does a gay drink straight? Who cares. You tip the hottie waiter and go about your business. You secretly hope that he’ll flirt with you but you kind of hope he never comes back. Like he goes into the kitchen and trips and breaks his ankle or something. Something that will keep him from once again showing up in your face on display and letting you know what you can’t have. And should you even want it? Sorry, not it, I mean him. He’s not an object even though you’d definitely serve him up “over easy” or “butter his bread,” but you haven’t actually tried talking to him. And why should you? He’s not a real person. Well, not at work anyway. Are you really going to be that creepy person who quenches their thirst by throwing themselves at waiters who make shitty pay and hardly get tips?

You have a tip you want to give him but let’s face it, he’s probably straight, and you’d burn him up in your gayness and probably freak him out, you weirdo. You see how I’m talking at you? That’s your brain rambling on and on when you should be focusing on you. This bartender or server won’t complete you. They never do. I don’t mean that directly towards wait staff I’m talking about people in general. You cannot find your happiness in someone else. It’s like having someone to count for you.

Everyone has an off day where their brain doesn’t work properly and you forget that six comes after five but before seven and adding those pennies up at the checkout line as the mom with two kids sighs really loudly as you try to count quickly. Luckily, you brought a friend along and they can help the process along. But that’s not why you brought them into the store with you. If it is, then disregard my last statement. Life, love, people, things, they all will try and slow you down and if you are dependent solely on them then you are only asking for disaster. As I lay here drifting off to sleep, I just can’t help think that maybe the reason I cannot be peppy and perfect is because I cannot be an airheaded Becca. And. That. This place kinda emotionally sucks. America’s job market is trash and the dumpster fire that is brewing will be quite the undertaking. Take shelter, Beccas, because life isn’t done pouring.

Kisses,

-Not Becca