Being a server in a restaurant sucks.
The clink of the coin on the laminate counter-top, the clinkety-clink-clink-clink. The frustration in my fingers as they feel out the numbers, feeding them fraction by fraction into the machine. All my night mounting on money and more so the lowering mad frequencies, of all of this neediness, the petty refrain of small change, digits that day by day draw out my rage. My insides curdle, sour milk, bitter yogurt, blue cheese, groan against lining, walls, organs, hampering for financials too desperate to appease.
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pixiefinch) wrote,
frustrated
