something in the deli aisle makes you cry

It's a refreshingly cold and dimming evening here in this portion of the world. I am chilled. I am drinking a cold glass of Dr. Pepper (as opposed to a glass of hot Dr. Pepper, which is a reference to something most of you can't put cha fingas on.) The period goes inside the punctuation. If you think I'm wrong, take it up with theCDP.

Today is a Friday. I loves me some Fridays. (Don't worry, Thursday; you're still my favorite.) I have a rare and welcomed entire weekend off from my second job, where I am called a "hostess" and deal with the hungry, the over-worked and sometimes drunk people who would like to sit down at tables with their families and various loved ones while eating comfort foods and other various edible colloquialisms. I smile at them. I am not as pretty as the other hostesses, but I am nicer than all of them except for one. Mostly drunk old curmudgeons come up to me after waiting the hour I told them that they'd have to wait and tell me I'm a good girl. They ask what I do and I always stupidly tell them that I am a stand-up comic. It usually the only thing I can think to say that validates my existence at that point. Then they will spend time at various later moments asking me to tell them jokes. They give me their business cards. I say, "I would, but I can't. My boss says no more telling customers jokes if I can't manage to not blush during them." They continue to pester me until I say very curtly and in front of their wives, "I'm old enough to know that I don't have to prove myself to anyone."

Last night my boyfriend took me out to dinner. The restaurant had a hostess and a wait. She told us ten minutes and wrote my name down. Twenty minutes later, after we finished drinks at the bar, I hovered over her desk. I was hungry and over-worked. I hated her. She sat us. The waitress messed up part of our order, and I told my boyfriend to only give her a 12% tip. He did. I love that he does what I ask.

I like my second job very much, though. It provides me a certain amount of attention and real human contact that my other job can't afford. They also give me a line of alcohol directly after my shift while I cuddle up to their incredibly cozy bar. That line doesn't quit until I do, and then I go home or to another bar and drive drunk back to my house to fall asleep while eating something. Don't judge me. I wake up with food all over me.

This evening I'm sitting very contentedly and very lonely in my third-story apartment by myself and the two wrestling cats. If I were the boy I've known all my life and never see, I'd call them brothers from another mother. I call them that anyway. They pee in each other's side-by-side litter boxes and really mean it. My cat bites the other cat's butt sometimes. The other cat is generally submissive and orange. My cat is large and in charge, but not too large, and grey. I think he's much prettier and more interesting than my roommate's cat. I say this to the orange cat when the orange roommate isn't around.

I am full. I was hungry and lonely and alone, and I ordered delivery food. I do not remember what it tasted like, but I know it was chicken tenders and that it was good enough. I tell myself that after Sunday, I will not be ordering delivery or partaking in fast food anymore. I believe it. I had kept two weiners that were cut up into pieces from the other night and ready to heat up on the stove. They were in a tupperware waiting in the fridge. I saw them there this morning. My super-health-conscious roommate threw them in the garbage before she left for work this morning. I saw them buried in the garbage when I got home a couple hours ago. She asks me what I'm eating if ever I eat in front of her. I try not to eat in front of her.

My toes are numb. I'd like a cigarette. I'd like to get loaded on a bottle of wine, but I don't want to get loaded before I have to go out to a going-away party tonight. I was going to celebrate my birthday tonight, but I decided that celebrating my birthday on the day that my friend was celebrating his going-away may be a bit awkward. I will get dressed up and go out on Sunday afternoon. I will not get drunk.

I have been working at work lately. That's why I haven't posted much. My receptionist called me "rude" in front of my supervisor on Wednesday because of something that had happened the day before. I started crying and apologized. The receptionist is a 50-year-old black woman who also works at WalMart. She cites often that she is a mother, a grandmother, to validate her actions. That translates as, "I am older and I do not have to treat you with respect." My supervisor was mute. I spent the rest of Wednesday crying and taking two Vicodins an hour. The day before, she had actually been rude to me, shouting, name-calling. I was "rude" and instigated her behavior because I approached her desk where nearly the entire department and our supervisor were casually talking, smiled, and asked her in a friendly manner to reschedule a patient who had been set to see the incorrect provider.My supervisor was mute. After two minutes of listening to her repeat the same point over and over again, I told her that I really appreciated her help, thanked her, and walked back to my office. I suppose that my receptionist has not seen my "don't fuck with me" side. My supervisor was mute. It is unfortunate that she'll be either transferred or fired within the next week. It is unfortunate that she does not understand the same sense of justice that I do.

It's not that I'm a bitch, people. I just don't take shit from high schoolers trying to gang up on me in Facebook groups dedicated to the movie Steel Magnolias. I have explained the rules to the trivia game often enough, but they don't like the rules and insult me instead of playing the trivia game. I'm not one to bite my tongue in that situation. I remember high school.

I may be a tad depressed. I'm going to go see what the 17-year-olds have last said in their attempts to insult me. It doesn't make me feel bad about myself, but it does make me feel a little homicidal.