I have the utmost respect for anyone who works in the service industry because I myself fought in those grimy trenches for years. I’ve known the panic of getting slammed with five new tables at once. I’ve felt the sting of what it’s like to be “in the weeds.” I’ve forgotten to bring an angry customer their well-done steak, and when remembering that I never put in the order I’ve fainted in fear. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it.

I’ve experienced it, and god bless your bruised little hearts for continuing on. I couldn’t do it. I genuinely despised every second of serving, probably because I worked at two corporate restaurants that tore at my burgeoning artistic soul on a daily basis. The first was a family restaurant in the suburbs where I had to deal with violent, sticky children who inspired my decision to never procreate and the second was a downtown eatery where I had to battle gross, drunk men who equally inspired my decision to never procreate. I look back at those days and I thank bejeezus that I made it out alive. The only thing I miss about it is the cold hard cash and maybe the “free” (aka stolen) coleslaw/soup/rice/gravy I took home with me each night as a royal “fuck you” to THE MAN. I would stuff those side dishes into my pants and yell “Suck it Corporate America!” as I ran out the door. Other than that, the rest was just balls. Check it:

All-You-Can-Eat nights. Sometimes I wonder if these existed purely to provide me with endless serving-related nightmares. I would dream that I was dishing out countless plates of ribs, wings, and heart attacks to groups of hyper-masculine dudes and then suddenly the restaurant would run out of food and everything would explode. Side note: I haven’t worked in a restaurant for four years but I still get serving nightmares. THEY NEVER GO AWAY.

Blatant Sexism. I was told on more than one occasion by my managers that I would get better tips if I wore a shorter skirt/tighter pants/more make up. I responded on more than one occasion with a polite “I’ll dress the way I want to dress, YOU HEAR ME PATRIARCHY??” My floor-length skirt and combat boots made me money just fine.

Seeing those same managers flirt with the 17-year-old hostesses. This was a tragic, disgusting sight, made even more worse when these 40-year-old men would explain WHY they had spent the night engrossed in conversation with Amber and Jackie. Apparently they had a lot in common. “Really?” I would ask, “Do you also hate gym class and love glitter? Are you also excited to FINALLY have a regular period??” Blech.

Contests. I would have to pretend to be excited when managers would announce competitions like “Whoever can sell the most steaks tonight will get a five dollar gift certificate to… drum roll… the restaurant where you currently work! Only valid from December 24th – December 25th.”

The word “team,” the words “go team,” and the elongated words “goooooooo teammm!”

Teenagers. Nothing made me feel more like a bitter, youth-hating grandma than a party of sixteen-year-olds. When I saw them seated in my section I would immediately find myself saying “Those goddamn punks won’t tip me anything because they’re spending all of their money on the marijuana drugs and the marijuana rap music. Goddamn punks.”

Birthdays. Please don’t make me sing to you in public. We don’t even know each other. We are strangers.

Discovering a ton of barbecue sauce on my crotch/butt/inner thighs the day after a shift. My body was typically covered in a variety of decorative foods and I never knew how those foods got into some of my crevices. One time I found a chicken bone in my bra. (And I was disappointed that there wasn’t any meat on it.)

Burning my arms in the name of hot meals. I have numerous scars on my arms from holding steaming plates of nachos for too long. Although I will say, if I’m going to be scarred for life by anything… I’m glad it was nachos.

Hearing someone yell COMING IN, COMING OUT, COMING AROUND, BEHIND YOU, IN FRONT OF YOU, NEAR YOU, BESIDE YOU, ALSO BESIDE YOU, I AM BESIDE YOU AS WELL, WATCH OUT I AM BESIDE YOU, HEY THERE BESIDE YOU CURRENTLY AND FOR THE INDEFINITE FUTURE, NICE SIDE YOU GOT THERE I AM BESIDE YOU SO I SEE IT. Catching myself saying all of the above while entering my own home was also a tad horrifying.

Smokers getting more breaks than me. Smokers were always taking five minutes for a puff but I could barely get time to take a piss. “Can’t you hold it?” my manager would ask, “No, I have violent diarrhea,” I would respond. They would roll their eyes and say “Fine, but don’t take all day. People have smoking to do.”

Terrifying bartenders. The most anxious moment of my life involved asking a bartender to remake a rye and ginger for a third time because my guest didn’t think it “tasted right.” The bartender drank the third attempt right in front of me and yelled “IT TASTES FINE! WHAT THE FUCK??” I wouldn’t have been surprised if she smashed the glass and ate the shards in protest.

Getting no tip for no reason. It’s a classic tale: you have a table of lovely folks. You provide excellent service. You give them a dessert on the house. These guys are like family to you. Then they pay the bill and write a big, fat ZERO on the tip line. But why? Why have you forsaken me—Mama? Papa? Brother? Brother’s girlfriend? ALL I WANT IS FOR YOU TO LOVE ME.

Having to say “Have a nice night” after seeing that you didn’t get a tip. One of my fellow servers named Greg once left the restaurant, chased down a couple in the parking lot who left him a nickel as gratuity so he could say “I don’t need this, but thanks” and then handed them back their coin. From then on, he was a legend.

Squatters. I have no patience for people who stick around after they’re done eating for an inappropriate amount of time, especially when those people are a canoodling couple taking up a six seater booth for three hours. I get it, you’re in love. You like looking into each other’s eyes. You can do this at home. I feel so lonely. Oh god I’m lonely. GET OUT OF THE BOOTH AND GIVE ME MY LIFE BACK!

Watching people drink alcohol when I can’t. The true definition of “hell on earth.”