Waiter Letter 1

1469293403276Dear V.,

Let me tell you one thing,

Customers never know.

After working here for two weeks, I can’t tip poorly. I tip 30 – 40%, unless the waiter or waitress is being deliberately bad. There’s too much going on that you don’t know about. I hear it all the time, “leave it at the front door, leave it at home, don’t take your problems to work.”

But that’s fucking impossible.

That’s naive. Few people are capable of doing that. You can’t seriously expect anyone to do that. Especially when they have to deal with the shit lord self entitled dipshits that make up majority of customers. Shit lord dipshits don’t have the fucking empathy to know what someone else is going through. They don’t know a god damn thing about human nature, about anything outside of the fact their fucking tummy is fucking hungry and they need to gorge to fill that fucking endless sarlacc pit.

They don’t know what their waiter is going through.

They don’t know that he was just standing in the parking lot 10 minutes before his shift started. In the parking lot on the phone with their fiancé trying to salvage their relationship as it crumbles apart because she “just doesn’t feel the same anymore,” even though two weeks ago she was begging for him to stay on the phone forever and never leave ever but who cares whatever people fucking change that’s life or something one door closes another opens into a pit of snakes yeah fun we all win.

But God is evil. And it wasn’t enough that they got dumped.


They had to stumble inside to work and put on a smile and give you your mediocre food and then you have the audacity to tell them that it isn’t good enough or “they don’t look happy enough” or they’re not making you feel welcome enough and fuck you it’s fucking impossible for me to do that I can’t do that —  I have to act like I like you so you’ll give me money and I know I don’t look like I want to be here and it’s true I don’t want to be here because I want to be at home sobbing in my bed trying to rethink my life because getting dumped by your fiancé 10 minutes ago before you head into work is a really hard thing to bounce back from so I don’t know I think I’m justified in looking a little sad but I can’t tell you all of this because you just want food and you don’t give a fuck about anything else.

I try to explain it to the hostesses and they don’t care no one cares. I ask Justin if he wants to hangout and he makes a face of disgust and says he can’t. I close that night and drive home hoping a semi will sweep my car up like dust to the wind and the I can just die on impact or burn there in the street, I don’t care. But I make it home and I lay in bed and try to go to sleep and I can’t at all and I have no one to talk to because I dropped everyone because I thought I’d be moving to her but I’m not now and I have no one to talk to and I can’t cry because then I’ll just pity myself and eventually I do fall asleep.

I dream of her looking at me confused asking me why I’m here what am I doing here and I have nothing to say. We just stare at each other like planets crossing by on their orbits, they only see each other from far away, always appearing as little specs of light in the night. Up close and the illusion is lifted. They’re just another planet all littered and cratered. But it doesn’t dispel the beauty. It doesn’t take away from it. It only adds to it. Because finally, in the sea of stars and the planets pretending to be just another star in the sky, you’re close enough to see one is just like you. Flaws and all.

And then gravity pulls you two away. Sending you back off behind the sun, appearing to each other as nothing but lights in the sky, praying you’ll look the right way the next time you cross paths.

I wake up tired.

I head to work. Where I’m tipped 5% on majority of my tables.

I go out to eat that night and my waiter for the most part leaves me alone and I tip him 30% and go home.

Sorry. That’s really all that’s going on right now.

Hope things are better with you,



I disappeared.

I threw my phone into the canal, I deleted my facebook, twitter, whatever.

All of it.


I unplugged my house phone. I gave my boss my address and I told him to only show up for emergencies.

Three days went by and I heard from no one. The cops came by on the fourth day. My mom called them.

“Is everything alright?”

I said yes and they asked if they could come inside. I told them fine and they looked around and asked why the sudden drop. I told them I was moving to a monastery and had to act drastic lest my family and friends talked me out of it. One of them was christian. He shook my hand and wished me good luck. I thanked them and asked them to please tell my mother. The christian said he would.

After they left I took a long walk to the park. A goose waddled around with my phone in its mouth. I wished I could take a picture, but as I walked away I realized I didn’t care. An image like that would only make sense to me, like showing baby pictures to your friends. They find something in it, but not the everything that you find.

At work, everyone asked if I was alright. I smiled and said yeah. They remembered they didn’t care and continued on. There was no sign on my face that I was sad because I didn’t feel sad. So, they weren’t asking if I was sad, they were asking because my boss told them of my life change. I told him I unplugged all comm outside of letters. He asked if I still lived in the apartment. I told him my address hadn’t changed and that should be obvious because of that.

He said he found it odd and incongruent.


He explained: it didn’t make sense to do this while still living in the concrete jungle.

I liked that.

I’ve heard it before, but I like that. Concise enough to fit in my head and write it on the wall and the mirror in my bathroom. This is a concrete jungle. But I like it. I don’t see the problem. I don’t see the incongruence. I just don’t want to be bombarded anymore.

I just want to go to sleep and wake up and not have to immediately talk to anyone. I just want to feel that real connection to people who go out of their way to see me. Who come to me and I reciprocate and reach out to them. Not a small text message or a fake 50 minute phone call to ‘catch up.’ No. I want the handwritten letter. I want the friend who drove six hours to see me. I want the embrace uninterrupted by a text notification. I want, I want, I want, I want– I want none of these things. I’m lying to myself.

I sit on the carpet in the living room. I pick through the strands of the carpet, counting each individual one like a monkey sifting through its mate’s fur looking for bugs. But there’s no bugs. Only me counting. I’m here.

We’re here.

She knocks on my door at 3:47 and I don’t answer. She pounds for a few minutes. She screams I know you’re there open up what’s wrong.

She hears me sifting, I think. It’s the loudest noise in the universe.

She goes away and I sit in front of the door and feel the grooves in the withered wood. She comes back. I can hear her sob. A crumbling noise come from her side. A piece of paper pokes its head through the bottom crack.

A note.

I love you.


cullin hill

I take a deep breath on Cullin Hill.

The sun is setting after the rain and the horizon is an explosion of color like red and pink rose pedals have stirred out of some great sleep and waited for this day to cover us. I’m sitting at the top of the hill at a bus stop reading and looking at the puddles and how the pink and red light refracts in the water and makes shimmering waves on the building behind me. The cars drive by through the water and the sound reverberates through the streets like a wave breaking on air itself. A bus pulls up, but it’s not mine and I go back to reading. Something pulls my head, though, like a puppet and I look up and I see you there in the window on the bus. You have your headphones in and you’re staring at the headrest in front of you and you look tired. I don’t make a motion, I don’t do anything, I just sit and watch and, like I did, you turn and see me and turn red. You put your hand over your mouth and with your eyes wide and you touch your finger tips to the window. You drop the hand from your mouth and smile big and I smile back and tears form in your eye lids and drop down your face like little streams searching for their ocean. We stay like this for infinity. You shake your head and laugh and I smile and chuckle and as the bus’s clutch pops and begins to roll your face turns to terror and as it moves down the hill you stand up and turn around to keep your eyes on me and I stand too and you have your hand raised, reaching to me over the seats behind you and I raise mine. The bus goes off the terrace and out of sight under the curve of the hill and into the sun. I stand still, waiting for the moment to come back like the departure was a joke.

My bus goes by and the sun’s final arc settles down into the horizon and the red and pink dies out and a dark blue replaces it. People walk around me like they all together vanished for our brief meeting and are now back to their life and I feel lonelier than before.

I stand still and take a deep breath on Cullin Hill.

Everything to Come

I fell asleep sometime later on.
She wondered into the room. The morning light pushed through the shutters.
I was wrapped in her covers and she changed her clothes.
She placed her hand on my shoulder, “
I reached out for her face. She came to mine reluctant. We kissed.
She turned and left. I sat up and watched her car leave the driveway and head down the street, away.
I fell asleep sometime later on,
waiting for everything to come.

Title Track

Hey everyone, I got into a car crash. I was leaning over to roll up the passenger side window, because my car is old as shit and it has the old school crank mechanism that seems to utilize all your fucking strength just to make it budge a fuckin’ little, while I was making a left hand turn. I was t-boned. I’m really fucked up and internally bleeding and coughing up blood and my head is gashed open. I’m in the hospital right now and there’s blood smeared on my phone while I type this and they have me hooked up to optimus prime. The nurses were adamant about me not using my phone saying I needed to sleep. I asked the nurse, the head nurse (if there’s such a thing), on my team of nurses dedicated to saving my life, to tell me my chances of living. She hesitated and I had to nag it out of her telling her what I waste I am and how I’m not afraid of the truth. She told me it’s 10%. I have a 10% chance to live. My life, like everyone else’s, a monstrous mess of unidentified and unpredictable duration, has been narrowed down to 10%. My life is 10%. I’m 10%. That all I am right now in this moment is 10%. I will either die or not die and it’s a 1:10 ratio. Math comes back, my school teacher’s were right. I’m fairly confident I’m going to die tonight or tomorrow morning so I’m taking the time to apologize to everyone for my shitty attitude on life. I don’t regret my outlook, at all, it’s who I am. I have no regret right now other than that I know it was hard for people to deal with me and I wish I was better at maintaining it. I also love all of you. Even those who wronged me and aren’t sorry. I love you. I wish you the best of life. I wish you that statistics be in your favor and your chances of life are 9:10. My now ex-girlfriend usually keeps her instagram info blank, but today I unfollowed her and she changed it to “Everything was beautiful.”

And it was.




I got the idea of writing this last night while driving to get some pizza.

Just Keep Going

“Why are you so tired all the time lately?” His friend asked.

He turned his head to him, his eyelids shrouded in black, his eyes glossed over, “I don’t know.”

“Well cut it out!” He laughed.

The man sighed and looked back on to his computer. He knew why. He didn’t feel like talking about it because he knew that route. It wouldn’t solve anything. Getting things off your chest simply doesn’t help him. It makes it worse.

He also knew all that any sympathy or “empathy” shown would be an act. So what was the point? And it was over a girl. Guys never get hung up on girls anymore. Dudes aren’t fragile these days. Only the losers are.

He looked onto his computer and surfed around youtube. He played songs with album covers and would just stare and imagine himself playing the songs and being set free.

What’s the point? Why am I still alive? No. Don’t think like that.

He couldn’t stop his mind from wondering.

If I went home tonight and killed myself they would have to clean out my room. I would be killing myself over a stupid reason. She loves me but doesn’t want to be with me. That’s enough to set this off. That’s enough for me to see through the “illusion of life.” What’s the point of life is love isn’t happening?

He thought about what she was doing and wanted to cry out, but couldn’t, because he can’t cry.

“Hey, you alright?” His boss asked.

He looked up with his eyes and met his boss’s. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He felt annoyed but quelled it, “yeah I’m sure, just tired.”

“Okay.” His boss’s eyes looked skeptical.

He knows I’m lying.

He would drive home in his car with no A/C  in 100 degree weather and would sweat too much into his shirt and would feel dehydrated and would stumble into his room  and strip down to his underwear and would spin a record and lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

He looked at the alcohol that sat on his bookshelf.

Don’t do it. You’ll go too far. Music. That’s all I need. But she’s not feeling like this. What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

He didn’t move for 6 hours. He might as well have died. He sure did want to.

All of This

You’re at home listening to that Blink-182 song with Robert Smith doing guest vocals and feeling like shit while your eyes are bloodshot and dried out but not from crying but from your old fucking contacts that you’re too lazy to replace.

She’s at a party her dumbfucking friends are throwing her for her birthday which was a week earlier and she is probably getting dicked down by every guy at the party including the one you’re kind of sort of suspicious of and you tell yourself she’s not a slut and you didn’t date a slut and she’s really honest and would tell you if this was a waste of your time.

Or something. Probably lying. Everyone lies.

You push the thought out but it comes back harder. She hasn’t liked anything on instagram because she’s too busy getting fucked. She’s not posting anything on Facebook because she’s in a gangbang. She’s not going to text you because she doesn’t want your dick.

Everyone gets laid but you.

You hope to Jesus that the conversation you have tomorrow night with her is a success but it probably won’t be because you’ll be asking about all the dick you think she took the night prior and you want to make sure that her pussy is still your’s and unaffected from every dick in the world but you can’t bring that up because who the FUCK WANTS TO START A CONVERSATION ASKING ABOUT HOW THE FUCK YOU HAD LAST NIGHT WAS.

Just go to sleep. Tomorrow will probably suck more.