I think I drink too much.
I haven't written a poem since Poetess, and I wrote it on Mushrooms three months ago. I've written a lot of fiction, though. Even started a novel. We'll see. I never finish anything, which is either one of my more endearing or rage-inducing qualities. I'm thinking of writing a poem entitled "How Working in Fast Food is Like the Army" and leaving it out for my district manager to read. I got written up for having my shirt un-tucked, no hat, some other guy having his shirt un-tucked, and having my eyebrow ring in when he walked in one day. Thank god he didn't notice the free double-pizza I'd made for my friends, who then got to watch me Not-Cry because I came "this" close to losing my job. Okay, sure, it's Pizza Hut, but it's also a down economy, and I've been looking for something better for over a year.
Anyway, that guy's an asshole, and I haven't appreciated my eyebrow ring this much since I was 18. Or un-tucked shirts. Fuck policy, man. Fuck it up its stupid ass. I'd rather buy a pizza from a kid with facial piercings and an untucked shirt than some douchbag in regulation uniform and regulation shoes and a regulation hat all tucked in and buttoned up and looking for all the world like s/he's about to fire a rifle into the air instead of giving me pizza. I don't like people who look like they're about to fire rifles into the air. They make me nervous.
Plus, it's fucking god-damned Pizza Hut. If anybody's bringing this country down, it's us, goddammit. With our waste and our asshole district managers and our bullshit rules and regulations for poor college students who don't really give a fuck, anyway. They make $6.15 an hour. I make $2.13 an hour, when I serve, and $8.00 when I manage. And you know what? I don't manage. I don't run a tight ship. If my crew wants to un-tuck their shirts, I'm right there with them. What was ever accomplished by tucking in one's shirt, anyway? And I look god-awful in hats. The first thing I do after I press "Clock out" then "Yes, I'm sure" five fucking times, is put my eyebrow ring back in, thank you very much, take off my hat, take the rubber band out of my hair, run my fingers through it, put down my windows, and rock-n-roll my way all the way home.
I'm such a rebel. Don't give a damn about my bad reputation.
And, hey. At the end of the day, at least there's still rock n roll. And a corner to throw my uniform in. And a dashboard to throw my hat in. And a home with gypsy Orange walls to walk into. And a body to fuck, if I want it. Sometimes, he even rubs my feet.
And that's how Pizza Hut is different from the army. That, and we have less guns. Slightly.
Who the Fuck is This Chick?
- JustTiff
- North Carolina, United States
- Tiffany prefers to be called just Tiff and is a writer. She has published one poem. She’s also thinking about being a comedian and makes collages when she gets bored. Recently, she took a cross country road trip and really feels like it changed her for the better. She is working on her masters in professional writing, and once completed, plans to legally change her name to Master Tiff. She currently resides in a cluttered basement apartment in Sylva, North Carolina. If you come by, please do not pet her cat on his belly, even though he rolls over on his back and puts his paws in the air as if this is exactly what he wants you to do. It's a trap. (Trust me.) She pays the bills by being a shift leader at Pizza Hut, and this is a bigger part of her life than she cares to admit. She is twenty-five years old and has no future career plans. If you are talking to her, and a song she really likes plays in the background, she will stop paying attention to you and listen to the song. This is a preexisting condition that she has never been able to do anything about, and she apologizes in advance. She also really likes it when people buy her piña coladas.