#2011highs

Twitter upsets me. I feel like I am trying to get into the popular clique by having to copy everyone else... hashtags, retweet, links... but I don't really know how to do it. And I try to show off my random, hilarious and poignant thoughts but always seem to fall short. My followers come and go.

In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was #2011highs. Well that should be easy...

Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.

Seriously. That was all I could think of.

Sure, I escaped the terrible steakhouse I worked at for two years, now write for an online magazine and started this little blog, but I make less money and most of the time feel uselss. The Cure concert was awesome but why didn't I go to any other mind-blowing shows?

Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" but where are the highs? Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?

No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same lovers I should be rid of.

So 2012, I will cheers to you tonight, but please... show me something worthwhile this year... and maybe, have 100 followers find me so I can pretend to be loved.

Happily Ever After or Bust

For the Fall 2011 television lineup I was looking forward to "Grimm"-- a show that features the horror and darkness in fairytales, brings out the violence of the wolf eating Little Red Riding's grandmother, and the twisted, carnivore-nature of the witch taking advantage of greedy, gluttonous children like Hansel and Gretal. Sounds perfect for my cynical, perverse mind.

Seeing previews for the show "Once Upon a Time," well that just looked silly and lovey-dovey.

Apparently, I am sometimes rotten at decoding shows through previews. (Yeah, I know, "Don't judge a book by its cover"...spare me). "Grimm" is boring, not very applicable to the stories, and reminds me of a "Law and Order" or "CSI" type show with nonsensical monsters as criminals. "Once Upon a Time" is kind of awesome.

If you haven't seen the show, it delves into a world where fairytale characters are stuck in the modern era -- our reality -- but don't know it or even who their real identity is because the Evil Queen casted a spell on them. They are lost souls wandering our time, all the while feeling like something is missing. Searching for something more. Disillusioned to the belief this is all there is. 

I think I might be a misplaced fairytale character from "Once Upon a Time."

Okay, not really, but wouldn't it be great if there was such an excuse to feel like that? To feel how I do 90 percent of the time?

But who would I be? Perhaps, Belle. She's a bookworm.

I also discovered I'm a sucker for the Snow White and Prince Charming storyline. Maybe, I am biased for my love of Ginnifer Goodwin (Snow White). Maybe, every girl cannot help but want her Prince Charming.

When I was younger I had a far-fetched dream of becoming an actress, and I remember thinking how I never wanted to play a bride because I only wanted to wear a wedding dress once and if I acted in one, it wouldn't be as special as when I wore one for my real wedding.

I also remember thinking, I would never marry. It was just one of those things I could not foresee in my future. It's something I still think. Not that I am against the notion, but the idea always made me feel... empty, like I knew this was just another thing I would be left out of. A major life event I would not participate in.

Not sure if the show and marriage-talk correlate... but they've both circled my mind.

Currently, both my siblings are engaged. It's Christmas time. I guess it's inevitable to feel a little lonesome, even if I don't want to admit it. Even if I lie and smile and say I'm fine.

The Saga of the Tool (continues)

After the incident and my twelve-hour relationship with The Tool, he started texting me three months later -- "Hey" or his infamous "Heyoooo" and later "I guess you're not going to talk to me anymore." -- I refused to answer. Seriously, who combines "Hey" and "Yo" and why did I once respond to that? One night, he called me 22 times. I ignored him.

When he pleaded that I see him, nerves flooded my system. Something told me a meeting was not a good idea, but something else told me I needed some kind of closure. This was my first friend in Hoboken -- and a boy I was sleeping with for over a year -- what happened?

I conceded to meeting at a bar. I was already half a martini in when he arrived. Looking at him was so familiar yet foreign. He cut off his Jonas Brothers' curls and looked so much older, as if more than six months had passed between us. He hardly looked me in the eyes and kept shifting uncomfortably, tearing up bar napkins. He said he was selfish. I said he was immature. He agreed. He said he never thought I'd like him seriously and when he found this other girl he just secured a relationship so he wouldn't be alone, but in truth, he liked me and didn't want to lose me. 

Why do I feel so rejected? Why didn't he fight for me? 

I asked if he was happy. He said "no."

Something changed in me then. It was like I forgave him or forgot how much he hurt me. As long as he didn't like her better than me, as long as she didn't make him happy, I secretly thought. Or maybe, part of me wanted to save him. Because I desperately needed some saving. Somehow, admitting he was unhappy seemed so far from the him I remembered, his vulnerable honesty was more attractive.

I wanted to kiss him. I stared at his lips, while biting my own, knowing he was no good for me but feeling the chemistry between us. Even if he was never a serious boyfriend, there is such a comfort and sexual energy between us. My loneliness crept up and took my rationale (or maybe it was the third martini).

We ended up back at my place. There was drunken chatter-- when he paused, looked at me softly, then kissed me...but I was so far gone at this point I don't remember what it felt like. The next thing that came out of my mouth was, "Do you want to be inside me?"

I wish I could recall his expression or what he said, but all I know is his clothes started flying off while I calmly removed my skirt, hopped on my bed, and said, "Your penis is not going near me, but you are going to get me off."

My memory then acts like photograph flashes: I hear myself moaning and my screams that I shouldn't be doing this, that I hate him. And I hear him whispering he never stopped thinking about me, about wanting me and I see his face looking at me, on top of me ...And then I blacked out.

When I woke up he was gone. I felt a little dirty. A little upset with myself and how easily I slid back into a drunken-induced habit. Are we friends again? Lovers? What do I want from him? (Something he could never give me). But it's like that wall I built blocking people out has gotten so thick, and since he began to chisel at it so long ago, anything he says or touches makes me crumble. I want someone to know me and look at me like he does.

We're back to the dance of him calling and texting, sort of making plans, then canceling without reasons. I now lost my closure and am back to where I started. I am not cut out for games.

The sad thing is, I still want that kiss.

Like a body pillow.

Have you ever grabbed somebody so tight -- held them so close, grasped their back so hard -- wrapping your arms all the way around them and pushing your face into their shoulder screaming -- "hold me" -- "I love you" -- and all the while tightening your grip, feeling your knuckles turn white as if you were trying to fuse your bodies into one as you feel their love, you physically feel their heart filling, and you know they're smiling because they believe you love them and want them a part of you because you are soul-mates but really, your arms are extended around them like they are a stuffed animal -- an object -- and you are simply pressing into them so you can feel, smell, listen to the breath of a real, life human being next to you -- more than next to you -- so perhaps you feel the love they are feeling --

But really, you feel nothing -- your heart is empty -- it sits in your stomach because this person you are hugging so tight cannot lift it, because as much as you fill their heart, they cannot fill yours -- nothing fills yours -- you are numb. and you are alone. more than ever before. as you lay, two bodies intertwined as one, one heart beating and one heart dying.

Three Years Later.

There is particular bar in Manhattan that has a "Name Night" -- each day they choose a name and if it happens to be yours, you drink for free -- awesome. On this particular Friday it happened to be my name so I was super excited.

As the Friday dragged on, it became apparent no one was going to actually go with me. I was cranky but in the area and couldn't pass up free drinks so I went by my lonesome. I kept staring at my phone for that damn green light to blink informing me I had a text. It never lit up. No one was on their way.

The bartender told me, despite my name, I could not get free drinks 'cause part of their gimmick was you needed to bring friends. Did she think I wanted it this way? She was pretty bitchy, too. I didn't argue, but because I felt like it, I lowered her tip. I took out Dorothy Parker's Complete Book of Poems and read and sipped my vodka as the night filled with more people and I heard twenty girls with my name squeal because they were receiving free drinks.

Hello, I've waited here for you... "Everlong" came on the jukebox. ...Come down and waste away with me... ..good song.. ..Slow how you wanted it to be. I'm over my head. Out of her head, she sang... 

I am laying in my freshman dorm room staring at my ceiling, where I pressed bottle caps into the shape of a star. It's 2 a.m. and all my roommates were at a Yonkers bar. There is a boy on the twin bed with me. A blonde, blue-eyed boy. We've been dating for a month but I am not sure if I really like him 'like that' because he is kind of a punk, kind of a nerd and does not drink or party with the same crowd as me. I am bored with the star so turning slightly, I rest my head on the boy's shoulder and my arm flops across his chest; it raises with his breathing which is uneven -- like he's nervous -- and then I heard something beautiful.  

...And I wonder, when I sing along with you... he began singing, softly but on key. It was not showy, more like a whisper. It was beautiful and honest. It was a boy singing to a girl he knew could not sleep. ...If anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again...


Holy shit, I am crying-- at the bar! How long has this been going on for? Did anybody see me? I grab the ledge and clumsily push my chair out. I grab a napkin, cover my drink, and place my book on the seat. There are more people in the bar than before. I stumble to the hallway and realize I don't know where the bathroom is. I end up in another room, frantic someone will see the tears on my face despite how dark it is.

I run into a stall, slam the door and start sobbing. ...Breathe out so I can breath you in, Hold you in... Will anyone love me like he did? At that moment, in my freshman dorm, I knew this boy would be a major part of my life. It was before the sex, before things got complicated. We were only eighteen then.

We dated for three years before I broke up with him. I know I hurt him. It makes sense that my punishment is always wondering if anyone will love me like he did. If anyone will sing, "Everlong," after knowing me for a month and mean it.

I leave the stall with a blotchy face and Rudolph-looking nose. The bar was so dark and busy no one noticed.

Bittersweet, Indeed.

My face was flushed. He asked me what I was thinking about. Isn't that the question people always say not to ask? I couldn't tell him (I could not make eye contact either). He remained seated as I paced. "C'mon, you can tell me anything." I could tell his eyes were searching me for answers. "Can I? Can I, really?" I knew I could.

"You're face is turning red." He was smiling. He was getting off on me struggling. "It's just sometimes... I think things... you know? ...I am not getting all 'Fatal Attraction' on you... it's just sometimes..." My voice was squeaking; each stutter came out higher than the one before. That smile was so damn cute. "What would it be like if your whole marriage thing wasn't in the way? I know this could never happen. But what if, you know? What if there were absolutely no inhibitions between us? What if we went out on a 'real' date doing stuff we always talk about doing but know we never could? ...What would people think of us, as a couple? What would we think of us?" My hands were shaking now, and I was short of breath from talking so fast. "I just wonder... what it would be like if our timing was different."

His expression was curiously gleeful, "You think that?" I sighed. I do. "I know that could never happen." Still smiling, he agreed. We couldn't. But my thoughts were out there. They were so bold and stagnate I felt like I could read them off the air. I held my breath.

"I'm hard." He gave me the other smile. The smile that meant we were alone and could mess around. I retorted, "WHAT!? Really!? Now!?" That was not what I was expecting. Casually, he answers, "Yeah, you're turning me on." Half of me wanted to keep screaming and wondered if he listened to what I stammered yet my other half felt special which  -- considering the scenario -- was ridiculous. I gave a sly smirk. "I am?" Okay, so I was fishing for compliments but then, I cut him off. "I can't do this. I have to go."

I grabbed the doorknob to leave -- "Steph, I think of that, too, sometimes." -- Five seconds went by. My eyes were locked with his, but I did not move my hand from the doorknob. The desire made me ache. I could kiss him or simply wrap my arms around him and savor these moments between us. But I turned the knob, instead.

I walked out and leaned my back against the shut door. I drew a long breath, closed my eyes and bowed my head in shame, knowing something I did not say out loud. I could have fallen in love with you.

"I've always wanted to be a waitress."

One of the intern mutes said this to me a couple days ago. We were talking over a Hoegaarden at a going away one-beer-each lunch celebration for a guy we never met. She confided in me she felt guilty for accepting a beer 'cause she wasn't twenty-one yet. Oh. My. God. I felt old. The sad thing is I am probably older than most of the editors, too. But since when is twenty-five old? And how did they all get jobs before me? It is appearing that only restaurant managers like me.

When the intern exclaimed, "I've always wanted to be a waitress." My initial reaction was, "Really? But you can't be a mute and be a waitress!" (Okay, she is obviously a nice girl and now I know she and some others can talk but it is still fun to refer to them as "the mutes"). Then, I remembered! I always wanted to be a waitress, too! In college, I applied countless time to my favorite restaurants and desperately wanted to work there. I never did. But what if -- if I did, would I have gotten out of it sooner?

Tonsil Time.

Dressed in a fabulous paper gown, I layed in a hospital bed looking at clouds. It was just a small, rectangle patch of designed glass that covered the flattering fluorescent lights, but I stared at it anyway. Was it suppose to comfort or distract me from the surgery I am about to undergo? My mom entered the room and commented on how pretty the cloud patch was. She teaches ten year olds so sometimes she thinks like one. But then, I get it. Tonsils are usually taken out when you are young, NOT when you are twenty-five. While I bleakly looked at the clouds wondering what the hell they were doing there, ten year olds look and are strangely comforted and distracted.

The nurses gave me a calming iv drip and then I do not remember much. I have a vague remembrance of them turning me over to put a shot -- the anesthesia -- in my behind. So I passed out before the anesthesia even came? Go me. I awoke to two nurses fighting over who got to put the oxygen mask on me. I took the nurse’s on my right’s side then closed my eyes. I awoke again to the left nurse telling the other I am twenty-five. I mumbled I was going to write an article about being twenty-five and getting my tonsils out once I recover. They looked confuse but nodded, like when a child is describing their imaginary friend and adults pretend to believe them.

For the following nine days I ate pastina, applesauce, and organic baby food (I cannot describe how disgusted I currently am by any pureed food, but if anyone has an urge, go for Mango Pear). Each day a new part of my throat/head hurt: first and foremost my esophagus, followed by my molars, then my ears rang and my tongue swelled. The roof of my mouth also enlarged and when I swallowed the fruit mush my nose squeaked. I felt like a blow fish with sliced insides. On day eight I threw up continuously and it is deciphered I overdid it on the prescribed Tylenol Codeine. Typical.

After two weeks of my mother’s care and bad television, I was cleared to go back to my apartment, job, and everyday life -- although, still wary of hacking up scabs and bleeding -- lovely. It is odd to look at the back of my mouth and see two black holes where my tonsils once were. And it is more bizarre to think for two weeks I regressed to being a child again because of a surgery typically done to children. Let’s just hope I don’t get strep for the fifth time this year.

I have a friend crush!

But I do not think he wants to be my friend. This makes me sad.

I am an intern now. An eager, overzealous editorial intern for an online magazine. I sit in the corner table with three other interns while the superior, editorial staff are aligned in front of us. They play a lot of 90s pop music and ignore us interns until we need to update spreadsheets or transcribe an interview. That appears as fine to the other interns (whom I call "the mutes") but me being a miserable, bored waitress, 'causes me to chime into the staff's conversations with silly anecdotes or questions. I do not think they appreciate these contributions. They are not used to those-not-being-paid to talking.

My friend crush sits completely across the room, opposite me. After labeling everyone in the office on my first day -- it's called boredom, not judgmental -- I decided he will be my friend. He makes me laugh, in that stupid, outburst guffaw kind of way with his intelligent witticisms and interesting comments. He also drew me in with his shaggy hair and plaid shirts. Since the editors never saw interns reacting to their antics, I am sure everyone believes I am laughing and socializing with myself. Which, in a way, I am.

We had our first intern meeting yesterday. It was there I repeatedly expressed my desire to write articles for the site and volunteered to become the resident sex editor if they need ideas on how they can hire me permanently. If not, I could write about punk rock since their music editor mainly writes about hip hop. Apparently, I have become an expert on that, too.

I cannot help being vocal. I want to stop telling people about home fries and smelling like a steak every time I go out! I want to stop watching others celebrate their life! I will blame my behavior on having a strange reaction to sitting in an office for eight hours. I know if I was already an editor and some intern was acting like me now -- like the girl who always raises her hand and recites every answer -- I'd be annoyed (by me).

But I put my life on pause for three years. Waitressing has broken me and left me craving more. I wish these editors could understand how desperate I was before I entered their building, how being hired was like winning American Idol. It is my chance to show the world (and myself) what I can do.

Herbert.

A Spanish server in his sixties: short, glasses, dark gray hair. Whenever I see him he smiles brightly, bows slightly, and says, "Hellooo S.O.S!" Since a misunderstanding a month ago, he believes my initials are S.O.S. They are S.M.O. but I do not have the heart to correct him (again). He also calls me Mark Twain. 'Cause I am a writer, get it? Apparently, he could not think of a female.

[Sidenote: Coincidentally, he told me Mark Twain is not the author's "real" name and asked if I had a pen name. I told him Steph Bee and he instantly exclaimed, "Ohhhh I thought it would be S.O.S!"]

He is ridiculously generous and odd. If a server needs singers for a customer's birthday, he jumps at the chance, and follows the other singing servers like we are in a parade, clicking a fork and knife together "to create festive background music." Out of the blue, he gave me a mini stapler and told me to name it "Herbito" meaning, "Little Herb." One day he said goodbye by interlocking his pinky with mine and saying, "Have the sweetest night," while the next day, he placed his palm on mine, closed his eyes, and hummed softly, "I am feeling your vibrations. They are good vibrations."

He also loves kids. It does not matter if they are sitting at his table or another server's, he approaches them and shakes their hand. I caught him drawing an elephant on a styrofoam plate and he told me, "It is for the children, I think they will enjoy it!" I now notice he draws an elephant for every child he talks to. And I am not sure what he talks to them about. I have even seen him hold hands with a few as he leads them to the bathroom. The parents seem to appreciate it; however, my coworkers call him a pedophile.

Sometimes, I too, now look at him strange and wonder, "Why does he draw the children elephants? Or shake their hands like they are tiny adults?" Then I catch myself. Why is it so hard for people to believe someone could be so nice? How does a friendly man turn into a creepy man?

And who are we to judge each other anyway? Professional servers do not end up being servers without a story. No one wants this to be their career, and when it is, the person's esteem and hopes disappear. Why make it worse for someone who is in their own struggle? I once witnessed him walking out of the bathroom with his head down and his hand slapping it, repeating, "Stupid Hebert! Stupid Herbert!" Not sure what he did; but it does not matter.

On the back of my check pad I have collected, what I call, Herbert Wisdom. These are my favorites:

"Even if someone is sending you dark and bad energy, smile all the time."

"I save gracious acts."

"Don't let anybody's ego steal your smile."

"He is a lucky one!" (referring to the birthmark in my eye)

I conclude. Herbert is a nice, quirky man.

Are tulle shoulder pads and face paint necessary?

Monday night I was talked into attending a live show hosted by a radio station. The guy who convinced me said the artist "radiated positive energy" and there was no way I could leave the venue "without being inspired." Inspired to do what exactly? Not sure. But the show was nearby, sounded promising, and I had nothing better planned.

I was in a fine mood earlier: I left my apartment at noon and went to the village to bar hop and drink vodka. It was now 8 p.m., and I found myself at this show, grumpy, drinking cheap white wine (it was all they offered) and out twenty bucks. The performer was wearing mini rainbow-colored tutus on her shoulders and sounded like Bjork singing African tribal music. The band wore one-piece, spandex gymnastic outfits. Not my scene.

Or was it? It was definitely not a yuppie Hoboken crowd but it felt like the audience (and performers) were trying too hard to be non-commercial, acting like arty know-it-all hipsters. But shouldn't I feel better here than yuppieville? I morphed into a snob who did not believe in this performace specticle. I put on my big sunglasses, sipped wine, and scribbled notes on the show's flier, thinking: "I can be just as pretentious as you all." Instead of bobbing my head and embracing the chants, my face remained serious and I analyzed each note. It was as if I needed to take on a role -- create a character and reason why I was there -- if I did not fit in I would make it because I was someone else. I did not receive the "positive energy" and all I was inspired to do was drink and write more.

In Hoboken, I yearn for an art culture, people who like poetry and indie music but I am surrounded by the superficial youth who brag about how great they are at beruit and chugging and prefer rap or techno. Here, where I thought I'd belong, I was still on the outskirts. I was in my own bubble of observation, staring at the audience, wondering if they were authentically happy.

But why is it so important for me to feel included in a crowd? Furthermore, why do I constantly lie on the outside looking in?

My three lovers.

I don't sleep around. Not really. I like making out with guys. But to have sex with them? Well, I am particular. So how I ended up having three lovers -- at the same time -- for fours months is beyond me and how I chose these winners from the rest of Hoboken's elite is further from that.

The Tool. Simultaneously, his Jersey Shore meets Jonas Brothers persona endeared and annoyed me. After drinks, he would create a pseudo Italian accent, calling me "baybeh" and leaving the 'R' off the end of words like car and bar. We were friends with benefits for a year before he confessed to having stronger feelings and wanted an exclusive relationship. In other words, he was "jealous of other guys fucking the shit out of [me]." One tipsy night led to us trying on the boyfriend-girlfriend label. Twelve hours later, I saw him walking down the street holding hands with an Asian chick. Dumbfounded, I managed to yell his name, to which he introduced us then hurried away. I still have the boxer briefs left in my room from when he was my boyfriend. My twelve hour boyfriend. I texted him he fucked up but we haven't seen each other nor discussed the incident since. Who broke up with who? 

The Man Whore. A Dominican, charismatic coke head. Off the top of my head I can think of seven people I know he's had sex with. We have nothing else in common. One night he pulled me into my room and gave me an over the top kiss as he tried to stick his hand down my pants. I pushed away, although, secretly liked it. Sure he was slutty, but also, hot. The cat and mouse act continued and ended with him yanking out his (ahem, huge) penis, saying, "Don't you want this?" and me screaming, "No!" and leaving him bewildered on my bed. I smirked at how coy I was, until the next time we hung out, and my hormones won. We had a few nights of rough and wild sex. His room had a long mirror aligned with the bed; the floor covered with half empty liquor bottles and the smell of stale cigarettes. I could spend three days in there without even realizing the sun came up. We did not have much to talk about: just series of basic questions, in between positions, discovering how opposite we were. My favorite question he asked was, "What's your favorite salad dressing?" It was fun for four months until his arrogance got the best of me. Now whenever I see Thousand Island (his favorite) I think of rough sex.

The Married Guy. Don't judge me. It's a cliche story and the mistress never gets the sympathy vote. I am not justifying the situation just explaining it. We talk literature and bond over other people's idiocracies. Once we had a fifteen minute conversation on why I love parenthesis and he loves semicolons. Should I mention we both have daddy issues? And we get prescribed the same panic attack medicine. So he's a wasp and older and married and I suppose that is a problem. The sex is okay but I mostly get off on the secret, taboo aspect of it all. A couple months into the affair, we had a bittersweet conversation about ending it. Two weeks later, we began again. The cycle continues.

A friend (ok, my therapist) said to me, “Various people know fragments of you, but nobody knows and has all of you.” It is true. I put up walls. The Tool built up my ego but I never trusted him. The Man Whore satisfied my animalistic desires but the Married Guy suffices my humanistic need for connection. I choose guys I know could never have all of me... Does this keep me safe or in pain?
  
I am currently in the market for a new lover.

Potatoes: A True Story

     “I would like the steak with mashed potatoes.”

     “We don’t have mashed potatoes – we only have one kind of potato – they’re like home fries.” I tell this to at least ten customers every day.

     The woman’s dry expression remains unchanged, “Okay, I will have a baked potato then.”

     I sigh, not surprised, “We don’t have baked potato – we only have one kind of potato – they’re like home fries; they are sliced red potatoes sautéed on the grill with some seasoning and onion.”
     She blinks. “I think I’d rather the mashed potatoes.”
     I blink. “We only have home fries.”

     “Oh, that’s fine.”
     Of course that’s fine, it’s the only potato we have, if you want potatoes you will eat these potatoes. The restaurant has been around for 26 years; I have been working there for two. Still, I am filled with a mundane amazement every time I repeat to customers about our one-of-a-kind “famous” potatoes. It says that right on the menu: “Our Famous Potatoes.” The menu has not changed in its 26 years and it is incredibly simple: meat and potatoes, more specifically giant steaks, burgers and potatoes aka home fries. Sometimes, when I describe these “famous” potatoes, I do quotation marks with my fingers. 95% of the customers will giggle at this and think I am a friendly waitress opposed to one who repeats herself over and over and curses those not listening in her head.
     I smile and collect the table’s menus.
     Five minutes after I bring the woman her steak and home fries she waves me over. “I don’t like these potatoes. Could I have French fries instead?”
     I am dumfounded. “We don’t have French fries.” I cannot bring myself to explain further, again.

     “Really? No French fries!?” She exclaims.

     No I am lying. This entire time I just wanted to make believe we only had one kind of potato because I do not want to please you, drive up the check, or receive any kind of tip.”Nope, just the one kind of potato, the home fries.” I give a half smile.

     As I walk away I hear her and her husband marveling about how there are no French fries and how odd it is for a restaurant to have no French fries.

    

     I need a new job.

A holiday celebrated by hypocrites.

Cinco de Mayo. Nearly every person I work with asked me what my big plans were. Without a second thought, I would say, "Working." They then would respond with, "Well, yeah but after?" or "That sucks; I requested off." About three of these people were actually Mexican.

East LA had a line out the door. People walked around with glowing Corona necklaces. My friend called me and when I answered yelled a high pitch "arriba!" then burst out laughing, saying he screamed this to every customer who walked into his bar. He is a white boy from Detroit.

I do not need an excuse to go drinking. If I want a drink, I will drink. Why is there an incessant need for an excuse to celebrate life? Furthermore, Mexico is a country often looked down upon by Americans. People debate Immigration Laws and often say we need illegal Mexicans to do the "dirty" work (ie: landscapers, dishwashers, and the cooks in a predominant amount of restaurants).

In the white suburb I grew up in there was one house where about ten Mexicans lived and my friends referred to them as "petunias" since they were "sceevy" and drove around in a van together whistling at girls. Those same friends updated there facebook status' yesterday with "drinking margaritas in lieu of the holiday."

The sad thing is, the Mexicans who have pride and a reason to commemorate the day, were the ones serving and cleaning up after Hoboken's drunken youth. And probably laughing at them.

So on each fifth of May I am reminded how stupid my peers are; however, I also remember on that date in 2005 I took my ex's virginity. I rather celebrate that.

"So your life is waiting, alcohol, and sex?"

A friend said this to me last night. At first, I was appalled. Who could say such a thing? Is that all they think of me? But after taking thirty seconds to think about it -- well, yeah -- my life is mostly waitressing, drinking, and sex.

Is this what happens when you graduate during a financial crisis? Or is this just the life of people in the serving industry? Maybe, every twenty-five year old is like me: having an early life crisis, not in the career or city they want; going from lover to lover but all the while, feeling like an overgrown adolescent.

I need to remember what matters to me. Writing, good books, punk/indie music, vegan food, dark satiric movies, NYC, vintage clothes... this is who I am. But I am stuck in Hoboken. And waitressing.