My black polo has a little bit of everyone's food on it somewhere. Ranch, BBQ, salsa--you name the sauce, it most likely ends up on my shirt by the end of the night. My apron becomes a towel for my sticky fingers out of laziness. My jeans become splattered with dirty water from the dish area. My skin starts glowing from sweat and oil. My hair smells like fajitas. It's not a good look.
This won't stop certain men. They're animals. They have heightened sense of smell, poor verbal skills and a creepy sense of touch. Instead of looking like a wreck to these men, I look like food--I look good, it's sick and twisted.
Keep in mind though, I am being paid minimum wage to be nice to you. I'm smiling because I find it increases my tip average. I'm acting enthusiastic because I need to pay my bills. But don't mistake my kind gestures for wanting to bear your children. In my head I've probably killed you five times all ready because of how many refills I've had to bring you in the first five minutes of you being seated.
But who knows, maybe I am having child bearing thoughts...
Well this thought is abruptly ended when I pick up the credit card slip and you tipped me $2 on your $30 bill. I'm currently a struggling college student. Unless you're really interesting and great, which you're probably not, I'd rather be poor and struggling alone.
I don't think I've been called "hot" since 8th grade, and no I do not want to party with you. And if I did want to party I don't have trouble finding them.
O.K. maybe they're not all animals...
Oh wait...
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