11.19.01 :: 10:59 am
He's growing a pencil-thin 'stache.
This needs to go away before Thanksgiving.
After a backbreaking six hours of serving people, after a table of seven who would sing "She's a slaaaaaaave for you," after I turned my back, after burning two fingers on a scorching plate, I am reminded why I waitress: $152 in tips, baby. Count it. One-Five-Two. One-motherfucking-FIVE-TWO.
Urban Outfitters, you addictive little whore, here I come.