Look at my right fist. You see it? That's two weeks in the hospital.
Look at my left fist. You know what that entails? Instant death.
Actually, I'm a pacifist. But there are still a few people I would like to pound into the ground.
Number one is Ryan. That cocky bastard is making me bus all of the tables every night that I work at good ol' Pizza Hut because I'm the new girl and that's what they do to all new servers.
Piffle.
I get a few tips tonight, though. $13.50. Not too bad, I suppose, considering I wasn't able to pay much attention to the customers.
I was too busy cleaning up Ryan's shit.
Had a few more of my co-workers hit on me, and one call me his "girlfriend". Said man also tried to serenade me. Oh, goodness. They're all rather odd, but funny.
The other people that I would love to give a good smacking to aren't important enough to even name. Or describe. Their crimes won't even be described, that's how unimportant they are.
So, er, why then are they getting to me? I dunno.
My latest review for my diary said that I am angry too much. She's probably right, and I really should try and write about happy things more often. I will get to that, just not right now.
So, adieu!
Janitor