Work was so extremely busy last night. Chuckie Cheese (been there once) is just down the road, so I don't understand the urge for parents to bring their stuck-in-the-house-and-brimming-with-energy kids to where I work.

I do, after all, work to temporarily relieve myself of the left-brain sense of kids depending on me. And we are not a fast-food pizza joint. A pizza takes about 20 minutes from preparation to steamy hotness. Add to that a roomful of customers who probably parked their minivans and SUVs around the same time as each other, so should know their orders were placed consecutively, making me busy making them and Chris busy cooking them. He and I also have to take all the orders and ring customers out. Yeah, you might have to 'use your patience,' as I like to tell Rachel. The children are more polite and civilized than their parents. Their volume on high is what makes me cringe though.

And what is it with guys on the last hole of their 40+ belts fake-smiling their fat heads at me in the corner of my eye, asking where their pizza is? I'm not a fucking retard, neither are my coworkers. We do, however, reserve the right to make a goddamn mistake from time to time, but this time we didn't. Your pizza is cooking. Just like everyone else's. And it ain't cooking any faster because you asked about it. Believe me. I wish it would. Now run along and have an actual conversation with your lovely wife and kids why don't you? Or go grab another beer to make that possible.

Chris is going to India to drink liquor out of a skull all day because he is having another sick-of-Americans spiel. He's not kidding. He hasn't told the boss about it yet, but he should, because he'll be gone for at least two months come January. I WILL BE GRADUATING THEN and may leave the grease pit while he's gone.

I think the time warp exists in the restaurant's dining room. It'll steal years, souls, and IQ points, if not careful. I need to make one of those resume thingies.