More. That’s all I can think about. More cigarettes, more food, good food, the best. I have to eat every day I refuse to eat crap. More, more, more. More pleasure of every kind. What else is there? Nothing. More orgasms, more hot breath on my neck, more movies like Gia, where we see Angelina in all her naked glory. More warm blankets, rainy days, and afternoon naps. More time, time to think, time to dream, time to simply BE. According to Billy Idol, in the midnight hour she cries, “More, more, more!” And she’s right. More is all there is to desire once you’ve found the thing that makes your heart beat faster, makes you feel alive, all you want is more. More money, more love, more serenity, more adventure, more soup, more crackers and cheese, give me more of this bounty.

Is it just me? Am I alone in these feelings? I don’t think so, but I don’t see other people FRANTIC about it like I am. Jeannie says I should just chill out, but Jeannie says a lot of things. She says a lot of things in between supporting her family, taking home food from the restaurant for her asshole, abusive father and her two young kids. Her dad abused her all her young life. She maybe still sleeping with him, who knows? That kind of shit goes on all the time. She also screws every cook in the place and wonders why she can’t keep a job for very long. I feel bad for Jeannie, but she just gets worse. Last night she told me she’s got an offer to be a stripper and she’s seriously considering it because the $100 bucks we make a day in tips isn’t cutting it for her. She has a $150 dollar a day heroin habit so, it all comes down to a money pinch. It makes me grateful my habits don’t exceed my cash flow, but still, I always want more.

Nine o’clock. No time to think about this shit anymore. Closing time. Time to wipe it all down, put it away, and make everything perfect for the day time bitches. They bitch about EVERY little thing! Like clockwork, Pablo hands me my styrofoam cup brimming over with Budweiser. I thank him with a wink and a wave spilling a few drops of foam on my hand. I signal Moe that I’m headed out back for our nightly smoke out. Out the back door, over the fence which, is a giant task in itself. Every night I run the risk of breaking some part of my body, arm, leg, neck, back, take your pick. Just so  I can hang out with my co-workers and smoke a couple of joints. After waiting on a jammed packed dining room all night sweating our asses off (and I know it probably drips into the food sometimes) and then, having to clean it all up for the next day-We NEED a BIG Buzz!