Please 86 Me!

I feel like I am trying to piece my life together with that dried up piece of shit paste that they would give you in elementary school. You know, the one that smelled like toothpaste. And tasted like it too (so maybe I was one of those kids that eats glue, explains a lot.)

Every move I make in my plans to move back to Connecticut just seems so unstable.

I have discontinued my membership at the gym. They will stop billing me April 1st. That is about the only thing set in stone. I just really hope to see one of the old lady's croak on the treadmill before I leave. It's not cruel, it's inevitable.

I have found a suitable sublet, but no papers have been signed because she is not 'suitable' at the moment for the other girls (girl) currently living in the apartment.

My job search has ended in Boston and I have put all my efforts into employment in Connecticut. I had a phone interview with a travel agency and I have my family and friends opening their eyes to any career opportunities that would fit my clusterfuck of a life.

That stuff is all just the easy part of this transition.

So, what is the one thing holding me back from jumping an Amtrak and soaring down the east coast back to New Haven...

Money? No. I have enough saved to hold me over for a significant amount of time.

Boyfriend? Lets be serious. The last boy who took the time to talk to me was the exchange student from Montreal at the 7eleven when we were both waiting for the 66 bus. He had just moved here for grad school in computer science. His first question to me? "So how do you like living in Boston?" Not the time buddy. Next question, "So what do you do, work/school wise?" (after telling me how he is in training and will probably end up working for Google or any major search engine) SERIOUSLY BUDDY. NOT THE TIME.

My friends? Those hoes are there through thick and thin, and through high anxiety life altering decisions that I now and will forever make throughout my life.

The thing that has my feet nailed to the floor and ripping apart my stomach every time I think about it is quitting my soul sucking waitressing job at the Clubhouse. I am up to my ears in food named after sport figures and managers that think it a privilege to wake up at 8am every Saturday and Sunday. I am almost at my year mark from graduating college and I still find my self asking people "Would you like fries with that sir?"

NOT OK. It's time to grow up. And I'm not talking about me anymore. You are jealous because I am getting my life together and your lives are as pathetic as someone who orders a fried chicken sandwich, extra cheese and bacon, and a 'diet coke'.

If I want to quit, don't scream at me and don't make future plans to piss on my grave.

A) I don't ever plan on dying.

B) Not my problem that you think it takes 3 fucking weeks to train another monkey to serve a burger and clean a table.

C) unts.

"Oh my god. The new girl forgot to put out tongs for the fries and stock celery. What a complete and total waste of a human being."

The only thing that is stopping me from completely jumping ship and making a run for the back door in the basement is the fact that the other girls I work with will be stuck picking up after my mess of a decision. Although, I kind of feel like their anger toward me will only last for a minute. I hope to think that they will sit back and smile and say "She got out. She is one of the lucky ones"

It's all so sad that I work at a restaurant that can be held in complete comparison to concentration camp. Sad, and ironic, because the owner is a Jew.