This is yet another reason I'm not equipped mentally or emotionally for this job. One day of this would give me flashbacks to a very bad experience...and let's just say I'd have my own BCO of employees who just snapped.

I've never been certain that I've tipped enough, so I prefer to err on the side of generous. I see it as me giving profuse thanks for not having to do the dishes later.

Once you find it, recommend me? But only if I can eat the pretzels without wearing any pants. THAT is the dream. A job that didn't require grown-up pants.

This is horrible.

We already don't eat out because my better half can't stand the sound of people eating (I'M LOOKING AT ALL OF YOU GODDAMN MOUTH BREATHERS. JESUS), we're antisocial introverts, and also children, because Jesus tapdancing Christ, teach your children how to be human beings in a goddamn social setting. At least try to…

Well, I feel even more justified in not eating out. I just...I'm...why? How? How far do you have to sink as a human being for you to look at your profit margin and decide supporting slavery is worth it?

I don't know. I really don't. I've thought about it over the years and...nothing. He said it when there was no one else around. I thought about going to OSHA about it, but I assumed they'd take his word over mine, so I didn't bother.

This isn't a restaurant story, but it took place around food.

Thank the Noodly One, it's Monday.

I only buy Whataburger Spicy Ketchup, because I'm in Texas. Seriously. Their spicy ketchup is heavenly. That's the only reason I started buying ketchup again.

I suppose you've always been more of a hardboiled sort of person, then?

I'm pleased you appreciated my yolk. I can be shy, but jokes like that help me come out of my shell a little bit.

Would you say...they're...eggshellent?

All I want in life is a job that doesn't require me to put on grown-up pants, like...jeans. Or slacks. Or "jeggings", which I refuse to believe are real and are instead an elaborate prank on me. But I know better. I KNOW YOU'RE ALL IN ON IT.

I always tip. So much. You cut my hair? And it came to $15 (Fantastic Sams, shut up)? Here's a 33% tip. You brought me food and took away the dirty dishes that I don't have to clean? Here's a 40% tip. Oh, the alcohol I ordered? You have to share your tips with the bartender? Well it tasted great and I've got a buzz…

I lost it at earballs.

The question I ask myself the most: How have you made it this far in life?

It took me a few weeks to learn that one. Now that I deal with chronic callers only, my question "...And to whom am I currently speaking?" is answered by a vitriolic, profanity-laden, unending litany of Every Problem Ever With Every Cable Service They've Ever Subscribed To, complete with a timetable of each tech and…

We can dream...we can dream.

I wish I knew.