The waitress is my friend

The waitress is my friend, and too often she symbolizes an important ritual

She — in place of the world, in place of the universe — seats me, comfortably, hands me a menu. With a pointing of a finger, an uttering some words and a swipe of a card, any of this can be mine

It’s a little pathetic that I shake with glee whenever I’m here, at a restaurant, where the only place is that I feel I have control at all

I have an entire power at my hands that I feel nowhere else

Bellow a want, and it is achieved. A wish is granted!

The waitress, she is my friend, because she is the bearer of good news

Good news in the manifestation of my greatest desires, given to me on a plate of ecstasy and where I didn’t have to lift the fingers that are too tired from raising themselves all day, every day


I don’t cook almost ever these days, especially when I’m sad

The thought of driving home on an empty stomach, to listlessly heat up some frozen pizza, to stir the pot aimlessly full of $3 chicken soup makes me so, so upset and so, so uncared for

And so, in the best act of trust I can, to even remember I can still do trust anything, anyone

I drive my tired self to a restaurant, where I sit down and try to project my existential pain into the hope that is almost never disappointed when I am at a restaurant and the waitress is my friend and the waitress brings me nourishment 

Because here, whatever I order, whatever is my heart’s desire, is not impossible

Whatever I beg the universe to hand over, is given


But not other things

I do get anxious often waiting

Because it feels listless, sometimes pointless

It feels as though the food will never come

As if I will never taste satisfaction

And every time, without fail, I begin to worry

That the gods didn’t hear my order

That maybe the wait is a sham

That maybe no one heard me, and maybe I’ll never get what I need — or even what I want

I start to wring my hands, sadly, every time


Every day I live for myself and my own generosity

At work, in friendships, in desired relationships, life

I give because I want to. I do things most of the time out of a bald desire to give and rarely because I expect anything in return except the right to exist

But at a restaurant I feel my fussiest, most demanding side surface

If I say I want it, I expect to get it!

The most transactional of exchanges brings an odd, empty victory


When I am more focused on the outcome than the journey, I get scared there is no journey

There is no outcome to even pine for because it maybe isn’t destined to be yours 😦

There is no result that is me getting fed

No result in which I get to be in love


What if the waitress isn’t my friend, and she never comes through, and I never get what I want?

What if you didn’t hear my pleading, my inquiry, my desire for what feels so impossible?

When I am at my most hungry, I get insatiably upset

Even if I keep it to myself, it’s there


What keeps me hanging on, applicable also to the non-culinary world

is Every time I am overthinking, every time I am sad, still the waitress ends up coming

I stare at the cooked food, and I imagine all the chefs and all the bustling and all the frying and all the washing and all the chopping and all of the stirring, all the processes going on while I was fretting to make this delicious entree in front of me

And I want life to be this easy, that with the snap of your fingers, you get the food you need

If there wasn’t any money attached, if I could just sit here and watch people get their items and the delight that passes across their face

The expectation, the desperation, all of that melting away momentarily

If I could translate that joy, that confidence and that gratitude into other aspects of my life, man I’d be grateful


I hate the thought of cooking for myself, of depending on myself too much — yet also at the restaurant, even if the waitress is my friend, it’s not enough

And as I stir the pot, as I cook up what I want to say to you … it feels like I’m alone. It feels like I’m the only one working

And the universe played no part in bringing me my order

Even though — and possibly thereafter of  — you are the equivalent of a $500 course at a goddamn three-star Michelin, a dish that I have always wanted to line up to taste. I would wait in line forever to see you again. I would pay damn good money to even get a minute of your time again. And you don’t even realize how delicious you are, because you are breathtakingly exquisite because of your perseverance, you are beautiful for your compassion and your vulnerability. And I knew my mouth was watering, has been watering from the time I met you.


And goddamn by god I am starving

Fear and hunger in Los Angeles

And I haven’t seen my waitress in what feels like hours

And the menu sits by my side, and I don’t know if my order is coming

If you’ll give me what I want, the best, most delicious cuisine I could taste

Or if I’m never hearing back, doomed to sit here waiting

Because fuck, it all comes down to a question I have to wonder — 

are you hungry too?


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