The Impotent Satyr
I love love love your food. That being said, your visible lack of discomfort while you serve me makes me nauseous. All I'm asking for is the facade of happiness.
I drove to this establishment to eat whateverthehell a Dan Dan Bowl is, and you can't even lie to my face and convince me that you feel joy while working a minimum-wage food service job. To the streets of Reddit shall I take this violation of my very humanity!
I didn't have to eat your vegan food. The gamut of Olympian cuisine is at my mercy, yet I picked yours—you owe me. Had I only known that I was to speak with your pitiful cashier—coaxing my wrath with their neutral, non-threatening body language; their eyes that did not ogle me as if I were the restaurant's monetary savior; their incompetent indifference to the large, dollar sign-bags of money at my disposal—I would have chosen a venue that catered to my tastes of 20-year-olds self-flagellating for a 10% tip.
If I'm not being actively lied to when I walk into a local business, how am I supposed to feel safe? If you can't fake a smile when my presence is presented, know that I take it as an act of aggression. First Fallujah, then Aleppo, and now Olympia. Clearly, you need to sit down and understand how good you have it, and how your hostility is affecting my mental state. I'm going to have an emotional breakdown and take my justified frustrations out on a Safeway gas station attendant, and it will be your fault.
So the next time that your employee treats me with respect but not also admiration, know that I will be bitching about it online as well as to every unfortunate soul who makes eye contact while I'm belligerently purchasing all the toilet paper in Thurston County.
