The Sexual Anarchy of Working in an Industrial Kitchen 2
I washed dishes so good they offered me a promotion to cooking. Well, cooking and also still cleaning. Still, a step up in the world.
Two of the waitresses like me. I’m older and very tall. That helps. I’m generally well liked there. One of the waiters (male) calls me “young man” and I’m 99% sure we’re the exact same age. I just look weird, because I have pretty eyes, like a girl. One of the cooks is a couple of years younger than me, and when he discovered this fact, it changed our social dynamic a lot.
It’s only a verbal agreement for now but I accepted the offer. More stable, better salary. Still pretty flexible, still a good way to amass quick cash. When the owner gave me a quick informal interview, she asked me why I was “just doing temp work” and not using my general universal competence to enrich myself by iterating on a job-into-a-career and becoming successful and wealthy. “why aren’t you normal”. I said something about liking the flexibility of being able to make my own schedule, to optimize my time for creative pursuits, pervert sex blog, writing music, etc. This was a lie. I didn’t think it was when I said it, but I discovered so. The Truth is, while I am generally competent and can do most of everything, I don’t want to be responsible. Involved, “attached”. No entry level job pays me enough to care about what I’m doing. and The Industrial Revolution was a disaster etc. I can do it, I can even do it well, and I will — but I don’t actually care about the business, or whatever end goal it has. The truth is, I’m scared of commitment.
Everything’s been going up and down lately. Mood, energy, hopes for the future. Today was a pretty good day: I got a job offer and like 8 people all told me how much they like me, and one of the cooks wants to lift weights with me and become real world friends. One of the cute waitresses went out of her way today to make me a coffee. Smiles to me, you know, the whole thing. blushing, the works. I was so excited about it at the time that I wanted to write an ironic flight of the concord style song about it, something like “I don’t even care about the leg tattoo, I don’t even care about her 92 IQ;”, but when I got home to a guitar I was pretty beat. The moment had…