Even when it’s gone, you don’t know what you had

Working nights now in a michelin rated restaurant. I thought michelin was a tire company but they also give out stars for fancy food. This place just won an award for best restaurant in DC. You pay 250 dollars to experience a tasting menu, and I’m such a low class rube I still don’t know what that means.

But I make the coffee for the end of the meal. I stand in the front in a vest and greet people and take their coats. It’s different from anything else I’ve done. I have to carry the drinks out to the tables. Memorize a complicated seating chart. Steel my nerves so I don’t spill a drop or set a plate or cup down awkwardly. Must be elegant and swift at all times. No noise or ill timed movements. No specks of coffee grounds or dirt or dust. Spoons always pointing in the right direction.

Serve women first, always on the left. In the world of fine dining women receive preferential treatment. This is different from nothing nowhere because women in every segment of society are pampered, protected, and propped up like helpless retards. It doesn’t bother me. Men are mostly redundant and we all know it. Men are drones programmed to kill each other over resources.

I work until after midnight and then open the other shop the next morning. Not sleeping isn’t so bad. In a better world I’d be sleeping 12 hours a night on luxurious down, waking up to slow, sultry blowjobs from a harem of 18 year old girls. In glorious reality I sleep 4 hours on a folded up ikea futon and walk a mile to work.

I work just enough in this cutthroat, meat grinder of a city to afford an occasional korean taco meal. When you combine the hard labor of mexicans with the anti social wizardry of koreans you get tasty tacos. Every three weeks or so I recommit myself to buying groceries and working out. I make two meals and hit the gym twice and then I’m back to eating a burrito a day and snagging leftover pastries from work. Good habits can’t be maintained here.

It’s the loneliness and stress of working constantly to avoid getting swept away by a tsunami of debt and expense. I had to ask my parents for money again and also my dad has prostate cancer. Sorry to hear about your cancer dad but I’m still an idiot. In the last ten years I’ve built myself into nothing.

Maybe I should move home. I want to be with my family but there’s no work in southern indiana. And good americans work themselves numb hundreds of miles away from their dying families. See you at thanksgiving and christmas, where we fail to relate to each other when it should be the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Count down to the moment we can break away from the tedium of human physical presence and go back to insulting people on the internet.

They caught the cancer early. They’ll take out his prostate and most likely everything will be fine. I’m sure it’s no fun having your prostate yanked out through your asshole but it beats getting eaten alive from the inside out. This is the fate that awaits us all. You grow old and worry about the ticking time bomb in your ass. You shrink and your skin sags, your dick wilts and your nut sack drags the ground.

Brittle bones and dementia. Marinading in the tepid milkwater of faded memories. Your grown children call for money but otherwise never visit or do anything for you. The nuclear family has undergone a radioactive meltdown and we’re living in the post apocalyptic fallout. Mutant sewer rat people scurry across the blighted landscape, foraging for scraps of food and sex.

Extended family networks are relics. We all vote for people that promise to take things from strangers and give it to our solitary selves. Who needs blood relatives when you can get lost in Kafka’s castle? I wish the prospect of death and collapse gave life more meaning and urgency, but we’re entombed in narcissistic reflection and electronic stimulation.

I’m going to stick it out in DC until my lease is up in August, and then I might move back home. It depends on how things go with my dad. Meanwhile I’ll be deliriously working and trying to forget about death and the lunacy overtaking the world.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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