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2003-12-13 | 7:34 p.m.
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My sober ass

It's all happening at once. It always has been. I keep on trying to understand how I can feel the same as i did when I was eleven. My sister turns ten in three days. She wants me to send her rock CDs. The child is clearly already screwed. Its my fault. Sweet. She's already cooler than me and i don't care. Sweet. Chick at work today thought I was like 21. Sweet. I had to show her my white hairs for her to believe me of my elderly status.

If you were a waitress, wouldn't your idea of the lasting impression of the job be, like, for instance, the people you wait on, your coworkers and so on? When I think of my job, I visualize metal plates and handled metal soup cups after cups after plates slopped with remnants of chili and brown, green, and puke colored soups, plates full of diced ham and peas smothered in ranch dressing topped with plastic cracker wrappers and dirty crumpled napkins. Scraping it all into a trash bucket, silverware in the left soapy water bucket, plates in the right, cups in the dishrack. Smiling at the Mexican dishwasher guy with the silver caps. Back and forth, my good eye on the prowl for finished plates and glasses. "All set with this ma'am?" Blue sanitized dishrags and coffee pots, orange for decaf, black for hi-test. Tomorrow is the work holiday party. I feel in every fiber of my being the open bar that will be wasted on my sober ass.


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