Driving down the highway on your way home, smoking a cigarette and wondering if it's okay because everyone you know seems to be doing it, even though you've contemplated quitting because of what that special girl thinks of you. Looking at your sister hold the Krispy Kreme doughnuts that you bought because she wanted to be a good host with a good breakfast. Taking another puff because your back is sore as fucking hell, and thinking how nice it would be if the lights coming towards you would crash into your body so your mind won't be so sore anymore. Thinking how nice swerving into the curb at fifty miles an hour would be. Licking the glaze off the back of your teeth from the orange chicken you ate a few hours ago, for a split second wondering if it's really the glaze or the cigarettes burning your gums into a fruity sensation. As you park your car, you think of what just happened and how hard it's become to breathe.

Listening to the girl you used to check out last year ask you if you liked "Donnie Darko" and you replying yes because you assumed she did too. And her saying she thought it was boring as hell, and you knowing you probably would have thought so as well because every movie you see nowadays is making you absolutely abhor the movie industry. And wondering if someone would make a movie about your goddamn life because you're sick of watching people on the other side of the screen do what they love while you're cramming butter into your arteries and losing hair on a chair that could hardly be considered comfortable.

And as you watch that same sister of yours grasping fake air, joking around with the girl you used to check out, you wonder if they both know what you're thinking, that you aren't laughing for a reason. They're not funny. And you start thinking about the short old lady who used to work for your boss and is helping out until your employers find more help, and you start laughing silently because you think that she kind of looks like a gnome or an elf because her hair is shaped like a cone. And how the shoes with the belt buckles and the masculine "I just escaped jail" look on the face not helping at all. Suddenly you're interrupted by the Middle Eastern woman with the made-up face telling you she needs a table for nine. And you start shuffling papers around frantically, finding a piece of paper to write her name on so you can call her when her table is ready. And when you tell her her table will be ready in a few moments, she gives you that fake smile, and you look at her for a split second, staring into her eyes, telling her that she's a big fucking phony and that she needs a scrape at the face. A scrape that will wipe all that lipstick off her mouth and all the dark eye shadow off of her cruddy forty year old eyes.

Finally you stop looking at her and you look at her kids and you realize how fashionably hip they are. And you start thinking that if people judge each other on looks, the person with the most money wins. Personality does not matter. The phone rings. "Hello, may I help you?" They're breaking up. You start to talk louder, and they start to talk louder, and finally you both end up yelling at each other. Of course you forget you're in a goddamn restaurant and everyone in the building is staring at you, giving you the fake smiles and the look that screams "Shut the fuck up". You finally make out what they're saying, but since you've done this so many times before you start thinking like an automated machine, and in all of this confusion you start spitting out lines like "It'll be there in about forty to forty-five minutes" or "Sorry, was this for pick-up or delivery?" when you obviously know they either haven't started ordering, or you damn well know that they just wanted a reservation. And as you drop the receiver, making that "click" sound, you start talking to yourself, but since you've been yelling you can't differentiate between inside voices and high-pitched noises. And as you walk towards the kitchen to give them the check of the order you just placed, you give a woman in a flamboyant rainbow sweater that same fake smile the Persian woman gave YOU. You start feeling disgusted with yourself and your eyes begin to blur.

You stare at the clock knowing that you won't be going home any time soon. You begin to weep quietly because no one you like is coming in to have dinner, and as the first tear begins to trickle down your cheek, you realize that the reason no one you like is coming in is because you have started to hate people. The same people that give you the fake goddamn smile and don't know the difference between Visa and Mastercard. Visa card numbers begin with four, Mastercard numbers begin with five, and if anyone wanted to know, American Express numbers start with three. You hate the same people that don't know this, and how you've begun memorizing certain combinations in credit card numbers because you've decided you want to screw over Mr. and Mrs. Discover card.

And knowing you thought all of this and knowing how pathetic it all is, you can already taste the vodka on your tongue and how much it burns when it's sliding down your throat.

cya.

-george