Food whore.

I’m no martyr, just a waitress desperately seeking desk job.

A little corner of my existence, my self-esteem, my sense of purpose, is absorbed by whoring out my soul for tips. Every piece of me becomes unified in the sole purpose of earning more money, selling more booze, selling more food, selling myself. A quick smile here, a wink, a nudge, a free beer, a new pen, a shoulder tap, a firm handshake, the doe eyes…. It’s all a part of the game we play.

I have the power to make you feel important.

I have the power to make you look good.

I have the power to change your night…


You don’t know me. You’ll never know me. Maybe you care
I don’t think you do.

But I’ll be walking away with cash in my pocket, friends in my phone, a drink in my hand, and someone on their way to meet me in ten. The next day I’ll get up, put on my fake smile, the black shirt, the shiny shoes, the apron. I’ll listen to your criticisms, your compliments, your thoughts, your worries, your wants, your needs. I’ll say my spiel. I’ll make your coffee.

I'll smile. I'll play nice and I'll earn my money;

because at the end of the day that’s what it’s s all about.

“I gots to get mine”…

I want that part of me to disappear. I want that part of me to go away.

Far Away. Gone forever. Never to return.

I’m ready to put down my tray, put on my khakis, turn over a new leaf. Nine to five, Seven Thirty to four, Eight O’clock till four thirty…. Acronyms, office banter, questionable practices, fake smiles, fake chat, fake credentials, selling myself, selling my work, selling my time, one day at a time…..