There's a reason I'm sitting here updating my blog with a bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka sitting next to me. I've had it up to HERE with creepers. All creepers can go fuck themselves immediately. I hate you with every fiber of my being, creepers of the world.
Normally I don't mind Saturdays at work. We generally have a fun crew working and most of the customers are our Saturday regulars and they're all pleasant.
Normally.
Generally.
A creeper has infiltrated our regular patrons and today he single-handedly suceeded in pissing me off and ruining the rest of my shift. It was all downhill after Mr. Creeper showed up.
He always sits at the counter. Always. He sits at the counter near the waitress station and he bugs the ever living FUCK out of us while we work. When he first started showing up a month or so ago, we all tried being polite and laughing at his stupid ass jokes. It started to wear thin when he would make comments to my co-workers, including gems such as, "I love watching you walk across the room" or "I love watching you shake the chocolate milk" or, my personal favorite: when asked if she could get him anything else, Mr. Creeper said to my co-worker, "You could get up and dance on the table."
Sick. He's taking total advantage of the position we, as servers, are in. We're supposed to smile, laugh at his stupid bullshit remarks and act like it's perfectly fine to make comments laced with sexual innuendos? Fuck that.
So, back to my story. The morning started out completely pleasant. I got to work with Mama Kimmy by myself for an hour, our boss was in a good mood and the other girls scheduled to come in were ones that I love dearly.
Then Mr. Creeper came waltzing in. I'll skip past all the word vomit that spewed from his mouth and go directly to the point. Mama Kimmy wrote on my arm with her purple pen (ironically, she did it because I made her wait on Mr. Creeper).
She did not stab me.
It did not break the skin.
She barely applied pressure.
It was a fucking pen mark.
Mr. Creeper immediately developed this insane fixation on the ink mark on my arm. Being used to him zeroing in on things about me in a fucked up attempt to connect us on another level besides customer/waitress, I brushed it off (he does it to all the girls- "Oh, come here. You have a [piece of lint/hair/etc] right there" or "Your hair is just a little out of place right there" - I don't know how else to describe it but it isn't normal and I don't like it).
"Hon, I'm concerned about that hole in your arm. Let me see it."
I glanced at the faint pen mark on my arm. No puncture hole, no gaping wound. "No, it's nothing. It's just pen. It's fine."
Five minutes later, he made a grab for my arm. "I'm concerned you have ink poisoning."
I stared at him and said, "It's FINE. It didn't break the skin. I'm FINE." To prove my point, I went over to the sink and washed the ink off of my arm. "There's no hole. It's fine."
A few minutes later, he made another grab for my arm. I was, at this point, highly annoyed- I don't appreciate strangers touching me and I was busy trying to work. He held out his hand and demanded to see my arm. "There's a hole in your arm."
That was IT. I said, "There's NOT a hole, I'm FINE and you're starting to make me mad."
Mr. Creeper did not like my response one bit. "Well, FINE! I hope you get blood poisoning and lockjaw. I hope you DIE from blood poisoning." He was actually serious.
At this point, two thoughts were going through my head: 1) I wish UnBoyfriend was sitting here at the counter having breakfast so he could hear this and maybe put Mr. Creeper's head through a wall and 2) I'm gonna slap this fucker off his stool if I don't get away from him like, NOW.
Thought Number One bothered me because I don't like relying on some boy to rescue me and for me to even think of such a thing was just so... damsel in distress-y. Not my style. Still, it did flash through my mind because I'm pretty confident UnBoyfriend wouldn't like some creepy asshole trying to grab at my arm and wishing death on me.
Thought Number Two was a really, really good idea because I was literally ready to kick this dude's balls up into his throat. I said, "Oh, THAT'S nice" and walked into the back of the restaurant. Meanwhile, my co-workers were defending me and shaming Mr. Creeper for wishing such a thing. He ended up leaving right away, pissed off.
The rest of my day, thanks to Captain Fuckface, was just SHIT. I spilled a pitcher of water on myself. My boss got mad at me for not writing my name on my tickets (I rarely ever do- oops), a table didn't tip me because their pancakes were "cold" (they weren't) and my beloved Hoda disappeared into thin air and left the rest of us to die.
Ok, not die. But suffer. Well, except for me, because I was (and apparently still am) slowly dying of blood poisoning anyway.
I know this post isn't funny but I'm too irritated to care. Don't bother telling me I shouldn't let things like this get to me. It's not gonna help me right now. I'm tired of people operating under the mindset that waitresses are not people and that it's ok to subject them to sexual harassment and/or general rudeness.
So, again, every creeper in the world can go fuck off. I'm one step away from going batshit crazy on your stupid asses.
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