Is a number I almost forgot while trying to remember just now--but it's also a number I thought I'd never forget, and I haven't for the past few days. It's the cost of a regular pie, taxed. And it's easy because it's nice and compartmentalized within this brain. Anything memorized in customer service is a great advantage.
Today a woman finds out she has to pay for the extra side of sauce (50 cents), and then tells me she's never coming back again.
Later, a 12 year old boy makes gesticulations of handjobs, violent ejaculations, facials, and the smearing of spunk on very circular, imaginary boobs towards a couple of perhaps 13 years each, sitting on each other. And they laughed and the shitty little kid laughed while I watched them surreptitiously and nearly died inside from terror and bitch-smacking disillusionment.
I'm damn near mortified to have a child, but more specifically a girl, but it helps to reaffirm my immaturity. I imagine when I become a Man, I'll be able to tackle these issues while feigning complete control and exhibiting my hostility through the tactful presence of an able firearm.
What else happened today?
I played WQXR on the radio while we prepared all the pies for the first hour and a half. Mahler rang through our morning routines and changed something within the men. I could tell. These three Honduran men, with as stout a work ethic as you could possibly envisage, worked quieter and somehow more efficient. It wasn't a Whitney Houston song, or a Phil Collins tune, which it usually is at that time of the morning--and it certainly wasn't anything overplayed, (Ahem, clears the throatGaga). I'm sorry to all my huge blog fans because I know a great deal of you are die-hard Gaga fans but it's not my fault Long Island radio stations cannot comprehend moderation.
Neris asked me for a classical mix-tape, and I'll make a good one because you know, Neris <3.
I would write more but there's
