If it's popular I'll finish writing it. Lol
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"Making my way through the outskirts of the larger dance floor, I halt as the image of a dark silk dress curling around some of the most stunning curves I've had the pleasure of seeing, sits...
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Let's get one thing straight. I hate men.
The capacity of their brain is supposedly close to that of a woman, yet most men barely manage to scrounge up their only three brain cells in an attempt at conversation. It mentally pains me to have a conversation with a man at this point, and I don't see the appeal of conjuring up a conversation topic just for them to respond with phrases like, "Yeah, sure", or, "Uhuh, totally". In conclusion, it is an ungodly waste of time and I've decided to never have a conversation with a man ever again for the rest of my life.
Why should I be expected to waste my own precious, limited time on a unicellular organism created solely for the reproduction of our species?
This brings me back to the current conversation with one of the regular crackheads that I've recently learned lives under the overpass a block away from the old-school diner I work at.
"Sir, I can't guarantee that the chicken burger can be turned into a milkshake, do you mind if I ask the chef out back?" My will to live slowly shreds away.
"No! I need it, let me make it. Yes! yes, I'll do it! Move over."
Oh for christ's sake-
"Sir, I'll have to ask you not to do that," I reply monotonously, backing away toward the door leading to the kitchen. The man desperately clings to the vinyl-wrapped countertop in a poor attempt to climb over, "Oi Bryan!" I yell toward the kitchen, not a minute later an older middle-aged Italian man with the largest beer-belly I've ever seen comes stumbling out, face covered in a white powder, holding a spatula ahead of him as a weapon.
"What? What? Lani, what is it now, you know I'm busy?" His thick Italian accent I know any girl could have swooned for if he were still my age. "Oh for fu-," Noticing the crackhead he walks around the counter a few meters away from where this guy is pathetically trying to pull his leg over to my side. "Shoo! Go! Get out of my restaurant," His spatula waving around like a crazy person while I watch comfortably from a few meters away trying to hide my amusement behind my regular cup of coffee. "You insult my cooking with horrendous ideas, then proceed to mess up my salt and pepper shakers? You're done for if you don't get a move on Ragazzo." (Kid)
After hoarding out the intruder he waddles back to me, leaning happily with a shit-eating grin, "Fine, whatever, sta'zitto!" Bryan grumbles.
"Don't underestimate the locals, man. That would be the 5th druggie of the week, as I had expected. I can nearly smell the 50 bucks you owe me." I add wistfully.
"I'll add it to your bill. Now get back to work!" he yells, marching back to his kitchen.
"No, you won't! Besides, there's nobody here," I yell through the small serving window, then looking around the empty diner, "nobody comes in on Tuesday nights."
"Fix my salt and pepper shakers." I let out an overexaggerated groan, throwing my head back and slumping on the counter, "NOW!"
After 20 minutes of changing out the already full shakers, while sitting on the customer side on an unreasonably uncomfortable red cushioned stool, my back aches, my fingers feel like they will simply detach themselves after becoming numb well over 5 minutes ago. I contemplate how I got to this. My life had been so simple before 8 months ago, I had a picture-perfect barbie doll lifestyle, funded entirely by my mother's position in her personal business. Textiles and Designs- apparently a moneymaker if you had the talent, and my god did she ever.
