There is this guy.

There is this guy.
There is this guy I always see, who, of course, never notices me. He’s tall with long dark brown hair, dressed in nice attire. I think he’s smart, extremely smart.
I’ve nicknamed him Orlando Guy.
I know – very original.
I work as a waitress in one of the restaurants he visits regularly. But I’m always leaving as he is coming or coming as he is going, so it’s always a privilege to see him. It’s truly embarrassing: I turn all red and my normally fast pass speech becomes dry and stumblie. And, of course, all my co-workers notice.
In fact, everyone who regularly attends here has noticed.
It’s that embarrassing.
Him and his friends are always bent over, discussing some apparently interesting topic, so they haven’t noticed.
Yet.
Did I mention I have bad luck with these kinds of things?
As of right now, I’m being talked-followed-stalked (take your pick) by this other guy. He’s really nice, I mean the really nice kind of guy whom your mother would love – but he is just not the guy for me. The second day I literally met him, he called me at least three times! By the next Monday: six times. Of course, I didn’t answer any of them, and he may have been trying to reach me: but I’m sure it was just to ask “What are you doing?” and “Want to do something later?”
My reply: “Working” and “I’m busy.”
He’s very persistent.
And annoying.
So, here I sit on my break. I just saw Orlando Guy leave. Which reminds me: I really need to learn his name.
But, until my face cools down and my speech returns, I’ll just sit here for a while.
Now, I’m once again annoyed. The annoying guy just text me, wishing me “A fun time at work.” Why the HELL would you send someone something like that? It costs me at least 75 cents per text because I don’t have a plan.
Okay, my break has ended. Back to hell I go. As I walk in, the normal banter of: Oh, lover boy was here again; and many others welcome me back. Oh, joy.
I can already feel the blush coming on.
Damn.
I need to learn to stop blushing.
I’m working the night shift again. It’s my favorite shift because it allows me to do my homework and think quietly and calmly. That, and I get to sleep in the next morning.
The crowd is very different from the daytime people. They are all generally quiet, which gives a nirvana feel to the restaurant. A feeling of calmness envelops me as I walk around, looking for empty coffee mugs.
All these people are like characters in a book. They all have a past, one which is so incredibly rich with personal heartache and achievement that I’ve started to write their stories down. Maybe one day I’ll publish a book titled: The Restaurant Night timers: A History.
Okay, maybe not. But the idea was cool.
For example, there is this old couple who come in at 9 o’clock pm for straight, black coffee and cherry pie. They ask me how I am, ask about school, and then ask about Orlando Guy and Annoying-Calls-me-every-Fucking-Hour-and-Text-Message-Me-Boy.
Okay, I don’t say all that to them, but it does go through my head.
Anyways, the old couple has been together forever. In fact, they just celebrated their 65th anniversary last week. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever have that, or if I’ll ever want that. The idea of marriage and commitment till death-do-us-part seems, to me, like a cage; and if I get any kind of feeling like that, I want to escape immediately. No matter the situation. That’s how I ended up here.
I’m from XXXXXXXXXX, but now I’m in XXXXXXXXX because of a complicated situation, one which is really hard to explain because it only effects me. I’m basically trying to run away from myself.
If that’s even possible.
Did I mention when I think I over-analyze everything way too much?
That’s part of the reason why I ran.
But that is definitely for another day.
The couple absolutely loves me. They love hearing my schemes for jumping Orlando Guy – it’s basically just me walking over and kissing him as if there were no tomorrow.
Obviously I haven’t done that yet.
I’m not suicidal!
Or desperate...okay, maybe just a little but not THAT desperate.
Most of the time, that is.
The restaurateur’s and the rest of the workers are my only family now, with the occasional friend. I have a hard time becoming friends with people; I’m an “acquired taste.”
At the college, I study anthropology, which is the study of humankind. I really enjoy it. It keeps me occupied from the rest of my life. Plus, working in a dinner, I get to survey people like a Cultural anthropologist.
But here’s the scoop about the anthro department. There is this “click” of people who basically rule the department. They were all considered outsiders in public school and now they’ve formed their own group. Although I was an outsider in high school, I’m not exactly like them. Therefore, I am an outsider in an outsider click – if that is even possible.
So they really don’t like me. But that’s okay because I don’t like them.
The couple just left. They wave as they leave and say “Maybe tomorrow,” in reference to Orlando Guy.
I have two more hours until I can close up and go home.
But tomorrow is a new day.
Maybe I’ll be able to smile to him without any problem.
Just maybe.

Next Day:

I wake up smiling, which I hardly ever do. Right when I left work early this morning, it started raining. I couldn’t help myself. I just had to run in it.
Rain helps everything just was away. All I did was just run and twirl around in the cold, yet refreshing rain; laughing like a little girl is something I rarely do.
My alarm just went off, signaling the radio to come on, full blast. Today’s featured song: The Coconut Song by Harry Nilson (Put the Lime in the coconut, and drink it all up). Giggling, I throw back my comforter and jump on the bed, shaking my unshakable butt and singing horribly.
Today may just be a good day.
Even the text from Annoying Guy (“Have a great day!!”) hasn’t changed the vibe. Then again, I did put my cell into my closet. Then buried it with a pile of clothing.
Dirty clothing.
As I begin to make the horrible instant coffee with a packet of cocoa mix (instant mocca), I start thinking about something in one of my old classes that has always been bothering me.
What are the facts, and why must they be conveniently pushed aside for the public?
In one of my anthro classes, we discussed how to bring a topic to the public view, but as not to upset them. You know, like sugar-coat the boo-boo because you don’t want to hear the real truth.
But then why do we yearn for truth?
Isn’t it a basic fact that the Europeans wiped out the Native Americans with disease, military warfare, and alcohol? We, as historians, have the actual uncontested truth, and yet the public does not want to hear it. Is it so bad to acknowledge what was done in the past to correct it in the future?
Why not tell the whole truth? On the daily broadcast news the public hears about deaths and killing from around the world and in their cities. We hear of the starving children caused by drought and human greediness. The public feels bad and then donates money to these children and families, because it is “the right thing to do.”
But what about our own people? What about the Native Americans who still live on reservations, living like captives.
Should they just be thrown away, and let the public ignore the daily suffering.
Should they be forsaken?
It’s despicable for the public to think there is nothing wrong in their “own backyards.” To live a life where you refuse to see what how the world really is, is to live a lie. It is sad to see how many people live like that.
I just don’t understand. Why can’t we help them before we help others. Wouldn’t you help your own starving family, before you helped others?
Why can’t the public acknowledge to the fact that there is still reservations of Native Americans dying, racism around the corner, the 1st Amendment being violated everyday.
Sorry, I just needed to get that off my chest.
Anyways, coffee in hand, I go to the dreaded closet that contains the absolutely worst enemy to any women over the age of 12. It looks so small and innocent. All nice and white, with black grips so you don’t fall off, in case you don’t like the result. The compass begins South West, but as you begin, it tends to slowly point North, and then a little East.
Have you figured it out yet?
It is also a torture devise the doctor’s office uses because they make you watch the weights balance. That’s right. It’s almost too hard to speak about. It’s a.........
S...C...A...L...E.

There, I’ve said it.
That was hard. Nearly teared in the end. Because of my fascination with Bridget Jones and her famous diary, I’ve decided to try to lose weight by acknowledging it everyday.
I step on the horrid scale.
Look down. Wait a few seconds.
I step off the scale.

Maybe I’ll start the diet tomorrow.
That was too depressing.

You know what is nice about having your own apartment, you can walk around in your underwear and no one is going to notice unless you forget you only have pink Hello Kitty underwear and small white t-shirt and you answer the door for a package. That tends to be noticeable, and remembered. Because now, every time a UPS truck drives by, they honk their horns. Or whistle. Or that smile that says “hey, I’ll give you a package any time.”
That’s right; I’m known as Hello Kitty – the girl who answers her door nearly naked.
I’m glad someone can laugh at my expense.
Although, I still walk around in my underwear just for the hell of it.