There’s a question of whether there ever was a business there.

Was there a whiteboard and folding chairs? I realized suddenly that I had been very angry for over two hours. Their fries are only good right out of the fryer. She just kept saying “whatever, whatever, whatever” over the things I had to tell her. That place is only good for breakfast food and prostitution.

I passed all the tests except Hazmat. If you knew me at all, you’d know that was the wrong question. She’s like a word-a-day calendar of suck. It took me a while to realize that the so-called job interview was at a Starbucks. You’re scary at that, you’d better stop right away.

They all pulled out this arsenal and said “Come on! We’re going to go over there and fuck that guy up!” but I wouldn’t go. I could sell anyone an appetizer. I don’t want to even fucking think about that guy singing, just don’t talk about it.

The rats are in front of mostly Ibsen. I hadn’t had that feeling at all, not since she died. I can’t imitate him, not right now. This is the last night of our residency! They’d play that same Santana thing with the Matchbox 20 guy on a loop, it drove us all fucking nuts. Later on when he had that skull face it was not a good scene.

Resentful recovering junkie angrily cataloging one book every seven minutes.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.