My fingers hurt. The cold December air cracks my skin and stabs at my joints. My stomach hurts. Holidays, birthdays, weekends, finals. They bring with them friends and food, laughter and unnecessary calories. My foot hurts. I don't know what I did to it. Perhaps it was a kind of psychic premonition (is that redundant?) of what I want to do right now--kick myself for being so ridiculous. My eyes hurt. No work and no school make for late nights and a lot of pointless computer use. My chest hurts. A determination is building inside of me, made up of courage and anxiousness and excitement. I've got to let this out before I implode (or is it, explode?), but I have to keep it in until the time is right. If only they knew what I'm going through. No, rather, if only I knew what they are thinking so I would know what to do with this bomb contained inside my ribs. Should I detonate it? Or should I defuse it? Ah, now my head hurts.
Stepping through the glass door, I am seated with my friends at a table and given laminated menus with pictures of burgers, drinks and cake. I can smell the bottomless baskets of fries that patrons around me are eating. I order, and when my burger does come, I will get those fries. But do I dare ask for a basket of them now? And if I do, do I ask for ranch or fry sauce or mustard with them? The anxiety that momentarily seized my chest eases as my friend does the asking in my stead. A few minutes later, my water glass is empty. The waiter passes by once--twice--do I stop him and ask for more? I don't want to be a bother, but I'm really thirsty! The fourth time he comes by, he brings a water pitcher and my parched throat is moistened. I've avoided being a nuisance twice, but how long will it last? Will my luck suddenly run as dry as my water glass and will I have to stop the waiter and ask for more napkins? This is nonsense. Finally, the fact that I am paying him to do all these things clicks in my head. I'm paying his hourly wages, right? And I'm going to leave a generous 10% tip, aren't I?!
I wouldn't do well as an upper-class British lady with servants. I'd ask them to do something and then feel guilty and no doubt tell them, "Never mind," and do the task myself. Unless my servants were my siblings. My siblings owe me something, I think, after they tortured me throughout my childhood years with, "I'll time you if you run get that for me!" Yeah, they never actually counted. Liars.
Maybe sit-down restaurants just aren't for me. Or corsets for that matter.
I much prefer rain to snow. When it snows, it sticks around for days and allows strangers to come to town and strike up a conversation about it. Whereas with rain, a stranger comes and cannot start an awkward, pointless conversation about the weather... Unless they talk about the sunshine, or the snow that's supposed to come, or how the ground is riddled with puddles. I guess it's hopeless. You can't escape those annoying, friendly people who insist on making friends with people they'll never see again-- all based on an ever-changing phenomenon that everyone discusses but very few really care about.
Yeah, I like rain better.