Fat and unhappy

Sometimes I quit my job, start a new job, and wish for death.

Today was the worst day of work I have experienced during the last 3 months. Which wasn't hard to beat, considering I have worked approximately 10 hours a week all summer. I was livin' the dream. So what.

I know I am gaining weight. My face is getting fat. Mostly because Carrabba's shoves all manner of delicious foods down my gullet at the end of every shift, in order that I might descripe said deliciousness to all portly patrons.

This restaurant is obcessed with being perfect in every way. Which means I must be perfect in every way. Which means an immaculate shirt, starched and creased, not a speck of facial hair, and rushing around with a "sense of urgency," even when there is clearly nothing going on that warrents said urgency.

I want to drop kick urgency in the chest, and punch captain OCD in a place which shall render him fruitless. And by captain OCD, I mean all of the asenine things that I am required under pain of death to accomplish every minute I am in that place. And by rendering him fruitless, I mean burning that place to the ground.

It's 3:54 and I'm less than coherent.