Columbia’s Steakhouse. Flo, Kameo, JD, Morgan, Brian, Nathan, bartender Bobby(?), health inspector, the man who only speaks Spanish who does dishes whose name I forget, I forget what time I work today, I forget which tables are mine, I forget what my tables need, I forget to bring bread to every table, I forget what is in a Diego salad, I forget to call my mom, I forget I am having a baby, I forget my wallet at home and have to leave my groceries with a Kroger employee while I retrieve it, sweeping the floor forgetting forgetful forget forgetting there is no way around it that’s what’s happening here. where do I wander off to? forgetting my values, the things I insist upon. maybe start reading The Stand. Maybe Stephen King is right down my alley these days. Definitely keep reading definitely keep waking up early you KNOW it’s for the best. It’s for the best because it gives you a whole day before oncemore becoming a Columbia’s Steakhouse pawn. maybe just quit the steakhouse in July and treat the whole thing like a summer fling, where there is an end in sight… I think we can all agree I won’t be at the Steakhouse too long… But while I’m still here might as well make that cash! nothing to it! like Kameo said, shit is easy!
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Henrik Vanger Mikael Blomkvist Lisbeth Salander Harriet Vanger
When your mind feels completely blank is when you start to come apart at the seams. Happiness and sadness, spiralling between the two, is out of your control. What feels IN your control is the basic decision-making: I am going to go to work today. I am going to eat a bagel for breakfast. I am going to recycle this plastic bottle. I want to go for a walk, I don’t want to go for a walk. I want to watch The Royal Tenenbaums. I don’t want to go to work, but I’m going to go anyways, and why? Because I want to make money. Because I WANT to get out of the house and do something different for a while. I want these things, yet I fucking dread the Columbia’s Steakhouse. I fucking dread table fucking service. I have no interest in these customers or their steak fries. It smells like POTATOES ON THE FLOOR in here. All-black outfit, keep your hair matted down like a fucking show pony I swear to God. Of course I will do my best. Of course I will continue to show up for work. That doesn’t mean I’m fucking OUT the door the moment Banana Republic decides to want my ass.
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What else is in my control? Whether or not I pick up a phone call, whether or not I want to call somebody. Or is that MOOD? What is MOOD, and what is DESIRE? Am I simply not in the MOOD for Columbia’s Steakhouse, or do I truly desire to not be there? How fucking animal it feels to wheel myself around a steakhouse in dress pants delivering foodstuffs to customers, completely battering myself about it the whole time, like this is all life-or-death. Is it really that bad? I make great money and I like my co-workers. Do I simply hate waiting tables? Do I feel a small part of myself die every time the host seats a new table in my section? Regardless, one thing is certain: do not fucking forget to enter a table’s order into the computer until it’s an hour later and you have no idea what happened to their food. Because we all know you are going to go to work in 2 hours whether you want to or not, and we both know you are going to wistfully appear at each table with a promise in your smile, a look that says, “I fucking GOT you,” and you will do everything in your power to ensure the microscopic fragment of influence you have on each table’s life doesn’t slip through your fingers and, say, run steaming garlic butter across an old man’s khakis, an entire lifetime of disappointment running its course over several minutes of facetime. Then you will leave the steakhouse and feel admittedly very good for having gotten through another night of what the whole time feels like a super-close call, I’m telling you, just keep your head down in there man. Get in and get out. Get the FUCK out. Before it’s too late.
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