This experience has been highly objectionable and I want it to end as soon as possible. I’ve watched this waitress saunter about the restaurant, feigning laughter and genuine interest in customers’ stories while permitting that smallest of small talk to gush out of her dolled-up face socket. Yes, Toots, that’s right, your overly-projected conversation about it raining two days in a row is not fascinating to anyone. It’s odd to make a point of something being unremarkable, but that quip was not conversation-worthy in the slightest. You’ve exhibited a blatantly offensive lack of self-awareness when you didn’t even hesitate before launching into that monotonous monologue. Initially, I thought it might be an isolated incident, but not three minutes later you started in on a tirade about your mild dislike of lentils. Honestly, everyone’s life’s too short to listen to that.
Release me from this tediously droning waking terror and bring me my check. I know I don’t like you, but you can be my angel and set me free.
My high-school guidance counselor explicitly explained that I was not a people person. He advised a “career” in becoming mildly injured and collecting government disability checks while I frittered away sixty years alone through microwavable cheese-based foods and daytime TV. Young and idealistic, I was convinced he was wrong, but as I sit here today, fantasizing about this waitress contracting a severe case of lockjaw, I’m recognizing the accuracy of my guidance counselor’s diagnosis.
Whenever a waitress starts in with a personal story or anecdote, my appetite becomes forcefully suppressed. Impulsively, I’m flooded with a desire to bolt to the nearest gas station and eat a cold hot pocket in my car in lieu of continuing this unfortunate exchange. Sadly, this restaurant is in one of those neighborhoods where the convenience stores only sell malt liquor, lottery tickets, and other non-hot-pocket remedies to sadness.
I think this waitress knows exactly what she’s doing; it’s this passive-aggressive demeanor that she knows rips me up inside like a misguided owl just going hard and fierce on the face and scalp of kid with a filthy rattail. Look, she’s just taking another lap of her tables then pretending she can’t figure out the computer. If I wasn’t such a devout capitalist on my way from my weekly worship at the First Objectivistic Room of Ayn Rand I would walk out. I would strap up my summer slippers, light a cigarette to instantly put out in my coffee, and bid a good day to this time-squandering emporium of griddlecakes and pig meat.
Holy taco night, this waitress is awful. Think of what would happen to the glove, ring, and nail polish industries if every carpenter, slaughterhouse worker, or sawmill foremen were this terrible and inattentive at their jobs. I’m considering dumping this coffee on the floor, intentionally slipping in it, and bleeding profusely in order to get her to bring me the check and in order to start another frivolous legal battle.
This notion started as a conspiracy theory, but I’m now suspecting this hussie is on a power trip. She must know my predicament, but who tipped her off? Trust no one, everyone is a suspect. This is why I never tell anybody anything.
I’m done. I’m not playing into her game. She can come over her and tell me all the excuses in the world about busy tables, about her irrational fear of computers, or about her perpetual bout with gout—I won’t care. Nope, I’m going to do the adult thing: call into work, tie up this table all morning gingerly sipping my coffee out of spite, and top it all off by leaving a frowny face in the tip line of the bill. While fighting fire with fire is not recommended strategy for putting out house fires, fighting passive aggression with passive aggression is always the way to go.