Bob sat me down today to tell me about his livelihood, how the Brewhouse was it and that I wasn't taking his livelihood seriously. With my giving away shifts and having a bleach spot on my apron. Everytime they have to tell me to shave its like my saying "Fuck You" to them, a flick of my fingers under my chin. That way is the way I'm saying "Fuck You." Steak sauce, hot sauce, ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper, advertising tents, candle globes, beer books, silverware; all soaked and scrubbed and emaculate. Napkins folded perfect, no overlapping edges. He shouldn't have to chase people down to tell them to fill ketchup bottles.

I shouldn't have to work at the Brewhouse.

Gosh man, why hasn't --insert any one of countless genius directors here-- knocked on my door yet?