sittin at the counter in the diner with nothin but a cup of coffee staring me back. The sound of plates clattering together and the swing of the kitchen door is always comforting. Every one looks the same anywhere you go. Pies and cakes behind the glass counter and women past their prime sighing and eyein up the tips in their apron pockets reminding themselves that theres a reason they work their hands to the bone in this bright formica purgatory.
Looking around booth to booth and nobodys alone. Everybody happy,at first I feel jealous but really I cant envy their ignorance. At least I know the score. Nothin is dependable except that everythings eventual. I can count on age, on my body slowly softening and fallin, I can trust gravity. i can count on drivin down the highway in the dark with no real destination just tryin to find somethin that dont exist. I can count on people leavin when it really counts, too, and I can count on there always bein a generic greasy spoon to rest my body in a minute to feel some kind of belonging, and people pretendin to care long enough til i get the check.
I know I dont belong here lookin like this. theyd say, hey now, wats a girl like you doin lookin so down? Come on sweetheart, cheer up will ya. It aint so bad! and Im sittin here feelin like fuckin ernest hemingway or some other bullshit miserable old fuck of a man who I probably would of hated if I ever seen them in real life. But here I am, and I see the same scene played out in hole in the wall bars and other questionable establishments at 30, 40, when my smile starts to wrinkle and the makeup just looks sad.
I can feel the imaginary cloud Im casting over everybody, but i know they probably dont even notice. Here I am brewin in my tired-ass feelings almost feelin guilty for bringin people down but I know they just as oblivious to me as I am to their family night at the diner lives. The waitresses probably prefer a handsome guy in a suit, just off the job, ready to be called hon and served "the regular". but they got me, a young one with no right to feel the way I do and quietly hope i get the fuck out.
I know they thinkin about that spot and how a real tipper could be sittin in my seat right now. How Im wastin their time with stupid coffees and not even a goddamn piece of toast or something. I know they hate me for sittin here silent , walkin around lookin like my dog just died or somethin. Jesus I can see my reflection in the pie case and its a joke. I dont even wanna look at my own bullshit-ass frowning face. everyone wonderin, the fuck is HER problem?
and they dont know that I been there too, and I know how its like to make your living off shinin everybody elses shoes, cleaning their shit and dirty toilets, feeding their fat ass bellies with a dinner on a warm plate and learning to apologize for even existing so you can take a couple dollars home for the night. They dont know that I care, for no reason except because I been there and I am there, and every day is a repeat of the last one and because fuck it. Why not.
They think Im some dumb bitch with a attitude problem walkin around all screw face for no reason, stingy ass no food orderin cunt who cant make polite conversation, just sit there and stare at the cheesecake behind the glass and probably leave a quarter on the counter when I go. But let em think wat the fuck they want. theyll see when I leave, when I give em more than it even costs for that little cup of diner coffee and Ill smile thinking about how maybe theyll feel a little better when I prove them wrong. I dont want thanks I just want somebody to know that I know they matter, and maybe somebody will show me the same thing someday. If not, fuck it, I still broke the mold of the parade of jackasses that streams in those doors every day demanding this and that and not even bothering to consider that waitresses make 2.80-something per hour to serve their rude asses.
I aint in the right body, I swear. Sometimes I wish I was old and ugly, so people couldnt say that youre young and pretty, go out and have some fun bullshit. I dont want to have fun, fun is shooting a fucking poison into my veins and the funnest part is hopin I dont wake up. Now thats amusement. Its goddamn fuckin great.
I cant take it anymore, I know my mood is like a magnetic force around me repelling everyone in the room,and it dont even feel that good to get away from the night anyways. I clean up my strip of counter and walk to the register, I aint gotta say a word. Two coffees? in a greek accent and I think god damnit that bitch wasnt giving me a refill when she offered all nice, more coffee? but hey wats 50, 85 cents anyways. even I got that much.
She rings it up and then somethin must be wrong because I see 1.25 flicker across the register, wait, twice? And here I was feelin like doin something right for once, and they want a buck twenty five for a 6 oz cup? And I pull a five from my pocket and get the change for the $2.68 and think about how this is one less bag tomorrow and in my mind i shake my head.
I aint got no job, no real possibilities for one, and they charge me more for 12 ounces than I would pay at a dunkin donuts even with a strawberry frosted. I dont go around on some lavish bougie-coffee-drinkin shit like that, Why the hell do you think i sit in a diner and only order a coffee? Because my budge is goddamn eighty five cents, and Im saving all the other cash I got for that sweet hit of bliss thats gonna knock me into the next galaxy the next chance I get to hit a home run into my arm.
Even when you tryina be nice they fuck ya. Aint that the truth.
But I pay the bitch, and fuck it. I put a dollar down under the ketchup bottle anyways and walk back out into the night rain.
Looking around booth to booth and nobodys alone. Everybody happy,at first I feel jealous but really I cant envy their ignorance. At least I know the score. Nothin is dependable except that everythings eventual. I can count on age, on my body slowly softening and fallin, I can trust gravity. i can count on drivin down the highway in the dark with no real destination just tryin to find somethin that dont exist. I can count on people leavin when it really counts, too, and I can count on there always bein a generic greasy spoon to rest my body in a minute to feel some kind of belonging, and people pretendin to care long enough til i get the check.
I know I dont belong here lookin like this. theyd say, hey now, wats a girl like you doin lookin so down? Come on sweetheart, cheer up will ya. It aint so bad! and Im sittin here feelin like fuckin ernest hemingway or some other bullshit miserable old fuck of a man who I probably would of hated if I ever seen them in real life. But here I am, and I see the same scene played out in hole in the wall bars and other questionable establishments at 30, 40, when my smile starts to wrinkle and the makeup just looks sad.
I can feel the imaginary cloud Im casting over everybody, but i know they probably dont even notice. Here I am brewin in my tired-ass feelings almost feelin guilty for bringin people down but I know they just as oblivious to me as I am to their family night at the diner lives. The waitresses probably prefer a handsome guy in a suit, just off the job, ready to be called hon and served "the regular". but they got me, a young one with no right to feel the way I do and quietly hope i get the fuck out.
I know they thinkin about that spot and how a real tipper could be sittin in my seat right now. How Im wastin their time with stupid coffees and not even a goddamn piece of toast or something. I know they hate me for sittin here silent , walkin around lookin like my dog just died or somethin. Jesus I can see my reflection in the pie case and its a joke. I dont even wanna look at my own bullshit-ass frowning face. everyone wonderin, the fuck is HER problem?
and they dont know that I been there too, and I know how its like to make your living off shinin everybody elses shoes, cleaning their shit and dirty toilets, feeding their fat ass bellies with a dinner on a warm plate and learning to apologize for even existing so you can take a couple dollars home for the night. They dont know that I care, for no reason except because I been there and I am there, and every day is a repeat of the last one and because fuck it. Why not.
They think Im some dumb bitch with a attitude problem walkin around all screw face for no reason, stingy ass no food orderin cunt who cant make polite conversation, just sit there and stare at the cheesecake behind the glass and probably leave a quarter on the counter when I go. But let em think wat the fuck they want. theyll see when I leave, when I give em more than it even costs for that little cup of diner coffee and Ill smile thinking about how maybe theyll feel a little better when I prove them wrong. I dont want thanks I just want somebody to know that I know they matter, and maybe somebody will show me the same thing someday. If not, fuck it, I still broke the mold of the parade of jackasses that streams in those doors every day demanding this and that and not even bothering to consider that waitresses make 2.80-something per hour to serve their rude asses.
I aint in the right body, I swear. Sometimes I wish I was old and ugly, so people couldnt say that youre young and pretty, go out and have some fun bullshit. I dont want to have fun, fun is shooting a fucking poison into my veins and the funnest part is hopin I dont wake up. Now thats amusement. Its goddamn fuckin great.
I cant take it anymore, I know my mood is like a magnetic force around me repelling everyone in the room,and it dont even feel that good to get away from the night anyways. I clean up my strip of counter and walk to the register, I aint gotta say a word. Two coffees? in a greek accent and I think god damnit that bitch wasnt giving me a refill when she offered all nice, more coffee? but hey wats 50, 85 cents anyways. even I got that much.
She rings it up and then somethin must be wrong because I see 1.25 flicker across the register, wait, twice? And here I was feelin like doin something right for once, and they want a buck twenty five for a 6 oz cup? And I pull a five from my pocket and get the change for the $2.68 and think about how this is one less bag tomorrow and in my mind i shake my head.
I aint got no job, no real possibilities for one, and they charge me more for 12 ounces than I would pay at a dunkin donuts even with a strawberry frosted. I dont go around on some lavish bougie-coffee-drinkin shit like that, Why the hell do you think i sit in a diner and only order a coffee? Because my budge is goddamn eighty five cents, and Im saving all the other cash I got for that sweet hit of bliss thats gonna knock me into the next galaxy the next chance I get to hit a home run into my arm.
Even when you tryina be nice they fuck ya. Aint that the truth.
But I pay the bitch, and fuck it. I put a dollar down under the ketchup bottle anyways and walk back out into the night rain.
