March 24, 2002
Time the Revelator
Pete loves me. How about that?
We had a group of college guys come in last night, and, apparently, one of them is in love with me. He said hello to me persistently, using my name, and told my aunt, who was his server, that he thought I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.
Hoorah!
So that made my night until I hit the agony that is four thirty in the morning. We get our second rush then, and I thought I was going to die. I just don't understand what these people are doing. Sleep, people. What the fuck.
My mom just told me that she was watching some show with Joan Rivers this morning, and that bitch was talking about the Academy Awards and how even people who live in trailers are interested in watching them. Fuck you, Joan Rivers. What does she think we are, a seperate breed of people? I guess we shouldn't bother watching the Academy Awards, 'cause we're too poor to go to the movies anyway, and even if we did, we wouldn't be able to understand them.
I'm sighing.
I think I am just going to dismiss the entire month of March as one of the most frivolous I have ever had. A month of unbridled hormones.
Aided, last night, by a farewell cuffing of an arm about my waist. But I am not going to go into it. I am not going to ramble incessantly about line servers and busboys. I am going to stop.
Do I hear a chorus of hallelujahs?
Who knows. I don't want to date.
I think.
astera at 4:17 p.m.