“It’s okay to say, I let this happen to me because I had no self-respect, and chose not to hurt the other person – because I didn’t believe it was okay to fight for myself at the expense of someone else. In fact, at times, I didn’t even know that I could fight for myself. Fight, even at all. I didn’t see how I was being manipulated. I didn’t understand ‘coercion’. I’m so used to hearing, “Baby, don’t be like that”, and feeling guilty – actually feeling remorseful because I’m disappointing someone else.”
“Don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched. You’re in my bubble – my personal space. I can be in this industry, and still have personal space.
We expect a shitstorm. We expect a mentality that defines us as rude or unservicelike. We don’t get to have personal space in this industry. Are we kidding? We’re servers. How dare we tell our customers that them touching our arm makes us uncomfortable? We don’t have the right to feel uncomfortable. Do we like our jobs, us servers?”
“I want to say things my mind has not even formulated yet. I am bursting at the seams, with wordless thoughts and a gentle fire in my chest. It’s all because of Rowan.”
“I am so hungover.
The throbbing, angry punishment in my skull for all that tasty, tasty tequila and great wastage of money, fittingly matched the growing ache in my ‘art.”
“I’m hurting myself, and I let you hurt me.
I’m sad, but I’m saddened because I wish you were right for me. I’m sad because I wish you were someone you’re not. I’m sad because I wish you’d treat me the way you can’t. I’m sad because you don’t know how to love me, but I want you to love me anyway. I’m sad because I know I can’t ever let you again. I’m sad because I’ve felt you. I’m sad because you’ve touched me. I’m sad because I’d take it all back.”
“I wrote nineteen supps, both by choice and not. I failed seven modules; twice by not even making DP. I was excluded, and in essence, it took five years to complete a three year degree.
Yet, here I am – a waitress with a degree.”
“As time went on, and as my wonderful manager, Lloyd, is not always around to overhear someone calling me beautiful and sarcastically interject with, “Oh, Iola never gets that AT ALLLL”, I’ve come up with some pretty decent approaches:
“The hot waitress is off today. Wait for her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I’m not allowed to prey on my customers, sorry.”
“I’m not gay.”
If they laugh, maybe you’ll get a tip. If they don’t, well, let’s hope their table leaves soon and you get a ten-seater with rich nuns with a penchant for alcohol, but Jesus is still bae. “