Smile. Nod. Die Inside.

This isn’t for the sweet ones—

the “thank you” crowd, the kind.

The ones who tip, who stack their plates,

who don’t make me lose my mind.

This isn’t for the guests I love—

the ones who make shifts bearable.

This is for the ones who walk right in

and make life straight-up terrible.

…

You ignored the host and sat yourself—

a bold move for someone who’s about to move tables. Again.

You didn’t read the menu.

Didn’t even pretend to try.

You ask what’s good.

Me—before this shift started.

You want water with lemon,

no ice, of course—

because that’s the hill you’ve chosen to die on.

I bring it like a hydration fairy,

and you leave it untouched.

Naturally.

Your kid is under the table.

Your other one is eating crayons.

You’re too busy scrolling Instagram

to notice I’ve died inside twice.

You send your burger back

because “it’s too beefy.”

It’s a burger, not a betrayal.

Be for real.

You ask if we have pancakes.

It’s 8:47 p.m.

At a Taphouse.

No. But I do have rage.

You tip 5% and call me “sweetheart.”

You’re right. I am sweet.

That’s why I’m not flipping this table

with your bread basket still on it.

You don’t bother to learn my name—

you just wave,

like I’m a taxi, not a person.

I walk over smiling,

but believe me,

every part of me is turning.

You say,

“I bet you love this job.”

I love when people like you leave.

Same thing, right?

You say I’ve got the patience of a saint.

Wrong.

I have bills.

And an excellent fake laugh.

But sure—

I’ll answer your questions, refill your drink,

and pretend you’re not the reason

I mentally quit this job

three times during your appetizer.

Because I’m not just a server—

I’m a therapist, babysitter, and background character

in your main-character meltdown.

I’ll still be wiping your crumbs

in my nightmares.

You left me two dollars and trauma—

and only one of those fit in my apron.