Work

I'm getting ready to leave for work. My hair is all pulled up and my make-up is applied. I'm wearing my black shirt, bra, socks, pants and panties. Usually I wear black eyeliner, too, but today I decided to be exciting and wear purple. I didn't hate waitressing yesterday as much as I hated it last Sunday, so that's at least positive. I don't think I'm as horrible of a waitress this weekend.

I've decided that I like people but I hate the other stuff I have to do to get to work with people. At the bank, I hated the money. At Trellis, I hate the food. I have been worrying about food for myself my entire life, really. If I don't eat it, I die. So one eating disorder and myriad palate changes later, I don't really care all that much what other people have and if they want more to drink. I really want to tell them, "I'm not here to wait on you. You know where the kitchen is, get it yourself." But the truth of the matter is that I really am there to wait on them. And that frustrates me. This is neither a fun nor stimulating job and is really nothing I can honestly take seriously. My honest thought at this point is that if I do something that they don't like and they decide to fire me, I would care less about that than I've ever cared about anything in my entire life.