And every friday night is spent reminding myself to invest in dr. scholls and writing urgent napkin poems about how there are two kinds of servers. The outgoing, superficial, put on a show and get down on your knees for you type servers. And then the Robots. The going through the functions, fake smile, repeating the same lines over and over and over type server. The hello, My name is Nicole and I'll be taking care of you tonight. What can I get you to drink? Would you like to try some queso maybe some chips and salsa? I am a robot. Not yet tired of waiting tables but this insistant nagging tugging pulling whispers about my wasted potential. As if the collective knowlege of my adult life is comprised of knowing the incredients of the meat sauce and every compliment I recieve is about my ability to keep your iced tea refilled. Are you still workin' or would you like me to bring you a take home box? Don't take this as a complaint. Every starving non conforming potential artist with a lack of drive ends up selling apart of their soul to some form of the customer service industry. I'm like, keeping the bar really low so that when I decide to finally Wake Up and better myself the next rung on the latter isn't too far out of my grasp. Still numb. Not yet defrosted. Im sorry ma'am its going to be a 30 minute wait for baked potatoes; would you like mashed potatos instead? Perhaps a side salad?
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