Friday, June 26

If you cry just a little, but laugh in the middle, you've made it.

Dear God, if you could lend me another hour in the daily cycle so that I can get some sleep, I would worship you like a soul-scrubbed pilgrim on the path of enlightenment. Until then, it's only blasphemy and self-deprecation from me.

I remember once, asking my Dad why, if God loved us so damn much, did He let us hurt each other and suffer from ourselves. I could tell that he was startled---his little girl, ten at most, sitting in front of him, eyes wide and full of curiosity. I guess he did what any good father would do. He took me in his lap and said, 'It's because he believes in us.'

I remember a time when that was enough.


...

This whole 'being an adult' thing...really sucks. I don't like it.S ure, I'm making a crap load of money (Alhumdullinlah) but I don't have time to do anything else. This place has consumed my life.

I don't like being a restaurant kid anymore. It was exciting when I was seven. It was fun when I was eleven. It made me feel important when I was thirteen. But now? It's just different.

I feel like I grew up differently from most kids, the office kids. Like Asima. I don't think I can explain it properly. It's just because I was raised in that environment, that strange environment where you interact with people all the time, and you learn how to adapt your personality to make them like you. Maybe that's why I'm so fucking eager to make other people happy. God, I'm so good at convincing people that our family is happy and functional. I'm so good at convincing people that I'm a good human being.

Now that I think about, even the way I prep groceries after shopping has been ruined by my being a resturant kid---we buy in bulk, package everything separately, and call them orders. GEEZ.

Well, at least I know that I can get a job at any resturant because I'm so 'personable' (says my customers, not me) and I'm a quick learner (says Diane, not my dad).

AND I think it's totally fucked up that I can remember the drink/meal order of every single last person who I've ever served. I'm not lying. It's true. Ask anyone. The moment they walk in again, I can tell you exactly what they drank and what they ate and what we talked about. I wish I could remember more important things...

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