Five F*cking Years Later

“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.”

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Thorned Roses & Melted Chocolates

“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:
“I’m gay.”
“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. “

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Spit Poison, Strike

“What inside your mind fuels such rage? Why do you want to break bones? What about physically and poisonously expressing your seething rage by means of intimidating and scarring those littler than you makes you feel better? Is it about power? Does it make you feel stronger, or like more of a man? Do you enjoy the stinging of the slapping, punching and the kicking?”

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I Promised I Wouldn’t Blog About Murder. Maybe.

““Ma’am, when I’m older, I would like to be a model.”
Yes, I spoke like that. Mother had a beautiful grasp of the English language and would be damned if her only daughter said “wanna”. The teacher laughed at me. The class laughed at me.
What? MOTHER SAID I’M BEAUTIFUL, DAMN IT.
Every day is a new betrayal. A child is beautiful to their parents, even if they have six toes on their right hand.
Anyway, I may take more selfies than a highschool girl and photomanipulate them to perfection, but as you may have guessed, I did not end up being a model.”

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