Alright. So I'm told that day three is biologically the hardest day as the nicotine is finally almost completely out of my system, and I will be honest, I REALLY WANT A FUCKING CIGARETTE! All day. Since the moment I woke up. 'Just one cig. Just one more pack'. No more. I almost feel kind of nice today, my body that is. I have been doing this unusual coughing thing that is normally a result of the combination of winter, cold weather, and frequent trips outdoors to smoke, but today, it has been different. It's kind of weird. My lungs are not filling with mucus and other kinds of greenish-yellow nastiness, but are actually clearing; they are expelling the shit I have been putting in my lungs these past several years. At least, that is what it feels like. It's cool. I dig.
What I don't dig and, in fact, quite dread is going to work tonight. Not that I hate working or anything like that, but it is simple: I smoke at work more than anywhere else. Come on now; I work at a bar. That's what people do at a bar. Of course, they must go outside now, but the principle is still the same: alcohol + food = cigarettes. Now, I don't indulge in any of these things, of course, but what I do is handle the stress of providing these accommodations to rich, stuffy people who love to treat me like an inferior human being. This, I find to be inexcusable, but given the fact that my living and that of my boss (who I love dearly) depend on my quality of service I provide, I must just bend over which each over-priviledged asshole gets to deeply penetrate my acquiescent anus.
Cigarettes definitely work to soften the blow; the four and a half minutes I get to breathe poisoned air that forcibly convinces my body to chill out and move on. I might as well just drink on the job, or get high on the job; would work just as well. But that would defeat the purpose of fully confronting reality, wouldn't it? The cigs do nothing but manufacture a resolution that really never occurs. What I want to say to half of my tables is 'Fuck off', but I can't, because I would get fired and, to be perfectly honest, perhaps they have the right to do so. I have chosen to be in this profession. If I hate it THAT much that I must resort to substance abuse in order to deal with it, then I should just quit; it's not that important. I'm not the fucking president or CEO or even manager; just a simple little waiter. This place doesn't rely on me...
...and now I am making progress. I feel good. I love my place of work and part of this entire package is the line of assholes waiting to make their helpless waiters and waitresses feel like a worthless piece of shit. That's cool. Bring them on. They mean nothing to me; I don't know who they are or why their life is so atrocious they must try to bring me down with them, and, frankly, I don't care. I will smile to them and provide them their food and nod my head and be their little fucking servant for an hour or so because, deep down, I love them. They pay my bills; they are my beneficiaries; they buy my wife's desserts (which are certainly 'beautiful and delicious'); they were giving me both the ammunition and the means with which to purchase my legal drug, and I love them for all they provide for me. Without the cigs, they provide me with strength; with courage to walk into a situation I know will suck terribly and somehow walk away with a 20% gratuity. Nice...
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