I'm sick of waiting tables. The doldrom of working class existence is pressing heavily upon me. I wake up, go to work all day, get home and am too tired to go out. Then I go to sleep and I have terrible dreams about work. Vividly haunting night terrors where I've forgotten beverages for all my tables and everyone I'm serving is an ex-girlfriend. I wake up when they all begin to throw silverware at me.
I feel like Lester Burnham, I spend half the day dreaming about retiring to the restroom to jerk off imagining a world that does not so closely resemble hell.
Who knows, maybe the proletariats will rise up someday, but until then I still have to wake up early tomorrow. I wonder if Karl Marx ever waited tables, does he know how it feels to worry about something as insignifcant as whether a customer ordered decaf or regular. Always give them decaf. Its safter that way.
Maybe, everything would be a little better if I wasn't as single. I've spent the last few months listening to Leonard Cohen's Songs of Love and Hate and contemplating suicide by means of swallowing my keyboard. At least that way my soul can continue to post on the journal.
I really liked your comment in my journal in general. It's how I feel almost all the time. I'm glad someone else is as angry about it as I am.