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The aforementioned | Thereafter

I don't think I've seen him cry before...

"I'd like a large number six with sweet chile and a Dr. Pepper, and..."

"We actually don't have any soda products right now."

"Oh. All right."

"Would you like sweet tea, iced tea, or...water?"

Awkward beat.

"Not particularly. Wait, would I still get charged if I settled for water?"

"A large drink is a part of the meal, ma'am."

"I get receipts that say it's ringed up separately for a dollar. But never mind that, okay, I get charged for a water, but I don't even get a bottled water?"

"If you want bottled water you'd only need to pay the difference..."

"Seriously?" This is the point at which my SO, who has accompanied me, squeezes my arm to keep me from holding up the line of hungry people in vehicles behind me. It was also his gentle reminder that he preferred food without foreign amylase. He had a rough day, so I indulged him.

"Just a ten piece, then. And..."

"So no meal--fries or a drink?"

"Yes..." And I carried on my order.

And I let the truck in the second lane in front of me, in the hopes that the people placing orders behind us will preoccupy the disembodied voice long enough for her to forget to tell her coworkers to spit or add someone's bodily fluids to our food.

I think I'm safe enough with the side salad, but the SO's barbecue sauce on his sandwich may be suspect. No complaints from him though.



For Veteran's day I harassed a teenaged food service worker because I really wanted caffeine and that bitch indirectly prevented me from getting my fix. So now I'm imbibing half a bottle of Smirnoff that I'm pretty sure I opened and put back in the fridge six months ago.

It tastes flat. Hopefully, I'll still be alive in eighteen hours. Because I wanted to apply for work--that emphasizes customer service and given all of the above, I don't think I can grin and declaim that the customer is always fucking right.