That Day.

I sit here often in front of this blank screen waiting for the words to come. I'm sitting here now, chewing my nails instead of typing, wondering what happened today that I might want to write about. It seems to be that nothing happened today. I stood around and sat around waiting for someone to sit down so that I could bring them something but nobody who sat down wanted anything. I stood around and moved around picking small things up from people's small tables, bringing them small checks and muttering small obscenities beneath my breath when they left me small tips.

I've begun something, a sentence, a fragement, something I ought to finish. I've been losing myself beneath the heavy breath of work, the days and days piled atop each other where I give up my time for a little bit of cash in my pocket. I know there must be some better way to live and it all begins with writing. I returned home this evening full of the desire to hear Rob play a song but he was sleeping and tired and he's upstairs; I've yet to see him.

There's a car alarm outside beeping incessantly. My friend the bartender from The Tavern promised me an etymological reference. He has six of them. So he says.

I feel like perhaps there needs to be some interweaving theme to this blog but I'm not going to write another waitress blog. I don't care to speak exclusively about my work nor do I want to come home and relive all the annoying things I witnessed during the day. Although, I'm sure they'll sneak in here and there, every once in a while. Maybe I'll think of a theme. Perhaps I'll transcribe my dreams from the notebook by my bed. I love dreaming.