Kiss me like the crashing of the ocean waves against sore, pull me back, swallow me whole; sweep me away.
Drown me in everything that you are, if this is the last thing I feel then so be it.
Welcome to what may quickly turn into an obscenely long rant on human beings in general.
Since no one knows and I never really got to updating anyone on what I’m doing, I’m a waitress now. Yes, yes, laugh all you want. The one service sector job I tried my hardest to avoid I am now stuck in.
People don’t really understand why waitressing sucks especially for me.
Let’s start off with the fact that I hate pretty much everyone I meet at first glance.
My manager always tells me hate is a really strong word and that I should use words like ‘not fond of’ or ‘not inclined to’ but I don’t think the ideas my internal monologue put into my brain falls within the intended spectrum of fondness most of the time, especially so when I run into a service demanding human being.
But through my misanthropy, I do pride myself to be more patient and tolerant than most. Basically my threshold for bullshit is pretty damn high, though most of the time I smile at my customers because their stupidity amuses me or simply because I can’t burst out laughing in their face.
‘Bahahahaha, bitch I’m laughing at you not with you but thanks for the tip anyway, the 65cents will take me a really long way.’
Another point. I have a high tendency on fucking up orders.
Mainly because um, if something isn’t fatal, I really don’t care. You want to special order a burger cut in half during a hectic dinner service while we are under-staffed? Sir, I’m setting your table with a fork and knife, please have some initiative. Also, your 10% service charge doesn’t go very far, it just stops us from spitting in your food.
I mean, I get the deal with nut and other high risk allergies but by God, have you seen the vegans that don’t even eat root vegatables? Here I am running a full house dinner service and you’re over there all ‘Um, is there anything on this menu with no root vegetables in it?’ What do I look like to you? A preschool teacher? Get out before I artichoke you to death, mdm.
F&B service stresses me the fuck out.
Having to constantly remember items that aren’t on the menu anymore and repeating myself at least twenty times a day for long periods of time can get so dull and boring, it almost pains me, not that an office job would be any better, but hey.
Not to mention the fact that I’m extremely sensitive to people’s auras and mood changes. Hungry people aren’t people you like to have first hand contact with especially in a restaurant where food is expected to take long. I have people bitching me out because certain items aren’t in/on the menu or because they’re impatient sons a bitches who don’t know minutes from quarter hours.
Needless to say, my day is ruined almost all the time. I don’t get a good day ever since a good day would mean a quiet day, directly relating to shit sales. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, or for my case, I don’t get any cake. Unless we’re throwing it away before of its expiry/freshness date.
Anyway, I’ve been working this sickening job for a solid 2months, full shift after full shift, and I can safely say these are the few things that will piss any F&B restaurant runner out there.
Deep breaths and here we go:
What you are doing to us is fucking up our table seatings. That means your food is going to take longer because we can’t fucking find you at your fucking table. You think we remember your face? You’re damn right we’re gonna remember your fuck face after you screw us over.
2. Don’t move the bloody furniture.
What kind of dingbat excuse is ‘I don’t like this chair it’s not comfortable can I change it’ and ‘this chair is a little low/makes me lean too far back’? Have you no respect for matching antique sets you uncultured scum of the earth?
NO you may NOT change your fucking chair to get to the sofa because one, that was a shit excuse and you really need to try harder and two, I still see you leaning all the way back so UNLESS YOU TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO EAT YOU PORKCHOP OFF YOUR CHEST THEN NO, YOU DON’T GET TO CHANGE YOUR FUCKING CHAIRS.
And you wanna know what? I happen to like that chair so fuck you.
3. No outside food means no outside food.
It’s not like we don’t make an effort to caution you dipshits about these things. The courteous thing to do would be to call in advance on whether we do our own cakes. You can even ask if you can keep your own cake at the bar in advance and we can keep it for you if we allow you to bring outside cakes in in the first place. Surprise cake? Sure, we’re all for the happy customer. All you have to do is to pick up your phone and dail us. Seriously, I don’t know what so hard about that. Don’t want to talk to us directly? Drop us an email because I get it, I don’t want to talk to you either.
There are so many fucking ways you can go about with cakes but no. Some table of idiots out there will always, always try to bend the rules thinking it makes them look like big fucks. Yeah, a gigantic fuckwit, that’s what.
‘I don’t care, no one is looking. Just do it.’
HI SIR, DO I LOOK LIKE A NIKE STORE TO YOU SIR? NO? WELL THEN GO BACK TO YOUR TABLE AND CHILL YOUR PREPUBERCENT CHEST HAIRS DOWN YOU SICKLY LOOKING THING.
But I can’t help it because I run so many tables and I’m always rushing to set tables, serve food and what not. The worst tables are the tables that have a combination of warm and cold waters because suddenly my dinner service morphs into this nightmarish mash up of memory work and diner dash. One way I help myself is by serving bottles of warm water to tables with old people. So if you get warm water from me when you asked for chilled, sorry but I think you need to work on your skin alittle bit.
Seriously though, in the end we do have a drinks menu and if you really think that none of the drinks suit you then I get it. What pisses me off the most are the disgusting cheapo ones that just have to double confirm if something is free or not.
‘It says water is FOC here. Is it really?’
If you want it to mean Full of Crap then of course sir, as long as it only applies to you.
5. Don’t ask us for bills and orders when our hands are clearly full.
Unless you want me to throw something at you.
6. Wait to be seated.
I cannot stress enough that we are a restaurant and that in all restaurants it is only respectful to the staff and customers to wait to be seated.
How to tell if an outlet is a restaurant or fast food chain? Table numbers. If you see a table waiting for food with table tags then it’s free seating. If you see a reserved tag anywhere in the store it’s a restaurant which means no free seating. Or you could just ask the counter, you know? Like what any normal, common sense wielding human being should know how to do. I don’t know why I have these expectations. I am let down every. single. time.
If you don’t get these simple dining ethics then maybe you really need to observe and educate yourself.
And if you find yourself in a situation where you took too much initiative in doing my job for me, then take a seat and wait. Because chances are that I didn’t seat you simply because I had no time to, be it due to the fact that I have food to serve, orders to take and a queue of people to sit down. Chances are, your table is dirty as well so you might want to think twice about plonking you brand new iPhone 6s on my ikea bought and hastily put together dining table.
Don’t demand the menu and service from me because if I don’t greet you, you don’t exist to me.
7. Don’t ask for fan and air-conditioning to be turn down or off.
On certain occasions, I may entertain such antics, especially for older people because I think their skin is thinner and they have less… blubber. But if you are a young adult fresh out of national service or what not, then jolly well deal with it. By God, we live in Singapore for fuck’s sake, you’d expect people to retain some of the heat we get here.
Other times I find this request fucking annoying because I’m running tables and I’m warm as fuck, the restaurant is filling up and everyone is warming the space up like fucking global warming and there that lady is in a shawl, sipping hot water I probably scalded my hand pouring for her and she demands I turn the fan off because she is so obviously freezing to death like the titanic is going down.
Or rather, it’s her boyfriend/husband/whatever that decides it’s his duty to keep his woman’s baby oven nice and toasty and projecting his omega-male authority by asking me to turn the fan off.
Um, what’s that sound in the distance? Sounds like the crack of a whip. Oh sorry, it was just your sorry status of man. *eyeroll*
8. Don’t ask for things that aren’t even on the menu.
I’ve come across customers who are vegan and I almost-sorta understand the pains of being one since I barely lasted a month on my last fast. I know I’ve said bad stuff about them at the beginning of the post but in truth, most of them are nice and understanding, and only want certain things to be excluded from their meals because they ‘understand that not everyone eats like them(us)’.
The irritating customers are the ones who are just plain fussy about their food. From the cut of chicken in their burger to the rareness of their pork…? No shit, I almost agreed to serving a pork chop medium rare just to watch the guy gag and hopefully fall fatally ill. Hey, if natural selection can’t do anything about his glaring lack of intellect, I guess my excellent customer service will have to do. But of course I didn’t do it, so as not to get my manager fired.
9. Don’t snap your fingers at me.
Like I already said, your 10% isn’t getting you places so unless you’d like me to snap-snap your neck, I’d opt for a casual wave or nod in my direction. I don’t know about you guys, but the whole gesture of finger snapping to get attention is so elitist and plain rude. Same goes for whistling, I’m not a dog, unless you’re implying that I am one. In which case I will happily maul you to death.
I’m not even asking for a smile or a rare ‘how are you’, I’m asking of you not to call me over like I’m some sort of butler because last I checked, I’m not paid nearly enough to take your bullshit and you aren’t Batman so kindly go fuck yourself, thank you.
Actually I guess to a certain extent I do because it’s fun messing with people like that.
But that’s besides the point.
Because nothing royally pisses me off more than customers asking me for food I already said is unavailable.
Yeah, thanks for wasting my fucking time, time I so painfully had to spend on dipshits like you, giving a fuck about what you could possibly want for your pregnant wife who isn’t allowed to have anything with ginger or wolfberry or spice or ice or half the things food on the menu here ALREADY HAS.
Good job sir, I feel bad for you because you wife would probably hate you before you guys make it to the delivery room.
In the end, it doesn’t change the fact that I love being around food and cleaning things, which is why I figured I’d be good for barista posts and other behind-the-counter jobs in the first place. Nevertheless, waitressing has opened my eyes to a whole new spectrum of how horrible the human race can be, as well as how thoughtful some are. I’ve had customers who’ve given me personal tips even though I felt I didn’t go out of my way for them, and customers who are totally chill about having to wait a little longer because the kitchen is swarmed or because I’d simply forgotten to key an order in. #sorrymanager
These are the people who keep me in the service line, though they are rare to come across, it’s nice knowing that they exist and I’d go through another ten tables of whiny little bitches if it means running into just one of them.
Pushing sales and hitting targets has also turned into this weird self-fulfillment thing that takes my mind off other… pressing matters
such as my deteriorating mental health and what not, so I guess that in a way my current job is a good thing…? Physically and mentally demanding but ultimately good.
I’ve also met the nicest people here, one being my manager, who takes the best care of my chronically suicidal self but somehow can’t do so for himself. Life really needs to cut the dude a break, like seriously.
And as much as I’d like to ramble on about how great my new found friends are, I’ll have to end the post here because I’m getting up at 8am
tomorrow later today for another full shift and God knows that even though I function on almost no sleep, I still wouldn’t make it though the day on emergency energy, A.K.A caffeine stacked on ibuprofen taken twice over.
So Goodnight, WordPress.
Sleep tight and
I bet you thought this line was going to rhyme somehow but
It seems that I am one month late in writing about STGCC. I know because i just got another paycheck in my mail and that is sort of how I tell time now. The grown up way, bu getting paid 12 times and proclaiming, wow! What a year!
Moving on, life has been really hectic and tiring. Recently, I’ve been really fatigued and my morale is kind of low. I’m almost afraid I’m catching feelings but I don’t know for sure and I don’t want to jinx it.
Oh my gad did I just…?
STGCC was a blast, tho it was really crowded this year and there weren’t many DC/Marvel cosplays either, besides the usual Deadpools, Spidermans and Batman/men.
I was lazy this year so I went with Meido Rin Tohsaka, but I promise I’ll try harder for AFA’15, which is only a few days before my birthday so I hope I’ll be in high spirits then! Either that or I’d be on the verge of crying because I did promise myself one time that I’d kill myself for sure when I turn twenty one.
Responsibilities. The true horror of life.
To be completely honest, I almost never buy anything at cons. I just really like going in to take a look at the market. Stupid, I know, to pay 19bucks for entry and not buying anything back. But if you think about it, I’m not spending more than 19bucks out of social obligation either.
Most of my time was spent taking pictures of things I found funny or for friends who were looking out for certain models and sorts.
Over on my end, I ended up taking pictures with things I can probably afford but will never buy because I’ll never have the space for it. Ever.
And the best part abouts cons is the fact that I get to be SO VAIN. I mean like ‘Look at me! I’m in knee socks! My skirt is puffy! This isn’t even my hair! LET’S TAKE A THOUSAND SELFIES.‘
And yes, it does get kinda sad after awhile because I know I’ll never look half as good in real life because my hair will never bunch as perfectly as a wigs’ and I will never be able to sit right anywhere with a fucking can-can under my skirt. Hell, most of the time I don’t even wear skirts.
But I guess it’s kinda nice to be someone you’re not even for a little while?
Anyway, Dom’s dad booked a room for Vivi and Dom for the night (huehuehue) and we used it to put our stuff during the day.
Why hotel/resting rooms are so important at cons:
Firstly, cons can get so tiring.
Don’t even start with the whole ‘you wanted to do it anyway’ bullshit. People get degrees and then complain about student loans. It’s the same thing.
Here in cosplay, I’m in ridiculously high heels and fake hair that can possibly sprain my neck over a long period of wearing it.
We don’t get to sit just anywhere we want, we have to make sure we don’t obstrut any passage ways. So a room to camp in would be good. We wouldn’t have to queue for toilets to touch up make up, because good gad, the horror when your falsies start peeling off.
Secondly, major cons are held in central areas where we have to commute on public transport for. I don’t think I want people starting at me in costume while I sit awkwardly by myself like an out of place potato-meido thing.
Lastly, we need to change out. If you can last over 10 hours at a con just walking around before going home, I salute you sir.
9/10 of the time, costumes aren’t comfortable to be in. We wear them out of passion because we love our fandoms. It’s the same way girls wear heels because they love how their butts look in it. Same thing, minor technicalities.
But my gad do they hurt you. They hurt you so bad.
They hurt you when you have to buy stuff to put everything together. They hurt you when people accidentally step or bump into a foam prop. And of course, the pain of thinking you’re going to maybe-probably die in your costume because you stupidly decided to wear four layers of foam armor out for an outdoor event.
I guess the only thing I had to worry about was if anyone was upskirting me, or if my feet would spontaneously decide to lapse, causing me to trip and break my ankles in my stupid doll shoes. I mean, look at them. So impractical but oh gosh, so cute.
Here’s a picture I would definitely print out and laminate because I love it so much. Picture of the day goes to this one because it’s Rila-flipling-kkuma in the um, cotton and I don’t know, I think I looked genuinely happy in this pic.
Huge ass Dante that I would probably never be able to afford because of practicality sake.
Walked in on this after washing off all my make up. I… don’t even want to know anymore.
Last meido picture before I changed out! I was on the floor because my feet hurt so badly, they refused to move LOL.
The day ended really well. We managed to sneak everyone into the infinity pool and chilled out together in the flipping awesome jacuzzi before heading back to the room to order maccas and watch movies together.
The next event I’m appearing at is AFA’15 as magic girl Rin. I’m supposed to costest her soon but I’ve been SO LAZY. I can’t seem to find a good time either :/ am I doomed to forever not costest my costumes?!
On the plus side, at least I got this post done. Sure hope it uploads while I sleep.
Is there still a stigma for depression?
Is it still considered a stigma if people romanticise this disorder and conveniently play it off the moment they feel blue or hurt by the littlest things? When suddenly people think it’s cool to be ‘depressed’ like it’s a fucking accessory on your character profile of Dungeons and Dragons.
You people don’t know what it’s like to constantly want to jump or cut or be addicted to your medication. You don’t feel the days you just want to bloody off yourself for no valid reason. You’re just using our disorder as an excuse and easy way out. It’s so insulting, it makes me sick.
Where did the days where people whispered behind our backs about the scars on our wrists go? I’d take people thinking I’d spontaneously whip out a knife to stab them any day.
Depression isn’t something you can just turn on and off at your will. If you want to pretend to be us at least get that part right. It gets tiring, doesn’t it? Nice to know, because that’s how all of us feel like. Indefinitely tired. Tired of feelings, of moving and mostly of life.
Yeah, life was simpler with stigma. At least people left me the fuck alone. Everyone’s just an asshole now.
I spoke to break them up.
Somewhere along the way, I decided that what I believed in and forsaw was the only conclusion and I manipulated her into aggravating the situation. I nearly succeed.
I knew exactly what she was getting herself into. But I wanted to break her. I wanted her to finally fail. I was sick of her getting everything she wanted. Her pets, a perfect husband and endless support from our father. I let her go.
But I wanted to watch her crash and burn. And I wanted to be the one who caused it.
I wanted to take the good she didn’t see if front of her before she noticed. I wanted her to regret. To feel extreme loss; again and over. She didn’t deserve to be happy. She was just lucky. She always was and it wasn’t fair.
I thought everything through. I read everyone involved perfectly. I was ready to twist our mother against her, I could have. I would have but I didn’t.
I didn’t because I hesitated. After months and months of making notes in my head of what to say and who to accidentally bump into, I didn’t do it.
I didn’t do it because I decided that her staying this way would hurt her more. To have her fight hard enough and not end up with what she wanted just like the rest of us. I let them stay together. Because it was my way of trapping her. Her personal hell defined by a signed contract and circumstances. I wanted her to face her own consequences.
I wanted her to hurt more.
So I built her up again and sometimes it saddens me that she’s so happy again, with child and husband. Showered with support in everything she does.
I should feel happy for her but I’m so bitter. Because in the end I am the one who gave her this life again. Everytime she asked me to fix things I somehow did. ‘I’ll figure something out, right?’
I was supposed to sabotage her.
I was supposed to tear her down.
But I didn’t and I should be happy but I’m not. All the effort wasted. I go home and see her as one of my social-engineering failures all because I hesitated. A could have; an almost.
It pains me, I never got what she got when was down. Instead I am told to shut up and to stop crying. When I am torn and vacant I am demanded to smile and be happy for my father.
I knocked her down and instead of suffering I saw how much tighter the collar around my neck was.
No matter how hard I try, I am always losing while she is just lucky.
Sister, sister you are ever so lucky.
And I can’t help hating you for it.