queer and loathing

I really didn’t sign up for this much work.

Oh yeah, I did.

Shit.

Really, when they said “you’re going to work your ass off” I really didn’t think it was going to be this bad… and it’s not even Saturday. Sunday is going to kill me. Really. If you don’t see a post here for a few days, someone come by my house and feed lydia and plato, because I am probably curlled up in a fetal position somewhere moaning something about Miller Lite and limes.

Fucking limes.

I never want to see another lime as long as I live. Ever. I mean that. I will strangle a bitch if someone ever so much as shows me something lime green after Monday night.

Key lime pie, however, will be allowed. Mmmmm, pie.

Seriously, as completely devistated as I feel, it’s actually really fun. I mean, it’s not hard per-se. It’s just…. constant.

Limes. beer. cups. ice. beer. napkins. vodka. beer. ice. beer. straws. cut more limes. napkins. olives. ice. trash. vodka. limes. limes. beer. limes. cups. napkins. “VINCENT! I NEED MORE LIMES!” beer. ice. trash. vodka. olives and limes and lemons. napkins. straws. “I NEED LIMES!” trash. ice. beer. napkins. vodka. beer. ice. “MORE LIMES!!” Limes. beer. cups. ice. beer. napkins. vodka. beer. ice. beer. straws. cut more limes. napkins. olives. ice. trash. vodka. limes. limes. beer. limes. cups. napkins. “VINCENT! ARE THERE ANY LIMES?” beer. ice. trash. vodka. olives and limes and lemons. napkins. straws. “LIMES! LIMES! LIMES!” trash. ice. beer. napkins. vodka. beer. ice. “WHERE’S MY FUCKING LIMES!?!!”

The coolest thing happened tonight though. As I’m running around, flying through doors and such, this guy at the bar is watching me. Not like checking me out, but watching. (He was cute those, so I was hoping he was checking me out. :)

Then, as I’m in the back icing down the beer, he peeks in the door to the alley. I stop him and tell him he’s not allowed back there. He then says…

“Hey, I was watching you. I work at the Bourbon House(?) and I do what you do. I just wanted to give this to you.”

He hands me a $20 bill.

I had to have some weird expresion on my face, but I managed to say thanks about thirty times and he finishes it off by saying “You’re working your ass off, I can tell.”

It’s weird. I’m doing all of this to make enough money to pay rent next week, kind of expecting a ton of money but at the same time not getting my hopes up and that one comment made it all worth it if I don’t get squat.

I don’t think I’ve ever really worked this much before… and let me tell you, fuck this shit… Give me a desk job anyday. lol

No really. I didn’t get your name (edit: it’s Robert. I saw him tonight and he’s got a husband already), but thanks. Not to be a big whiney baby, but I haven’t really gotten any feedback from the bartenders… so I have no idea if they think I suck or not. None of them have really yelled at me or anything though and I’m pretty sure they know I’m not sitting in the breakroom doing my nails or anything. I guess I’ll find out on Tuesday when I get my money.