Due to conflict between the owner of the restaurant and I, my hours have been reduced drastically. I am scheduled to work only on the weekends. The tips are better on those days, so I have no reason to argue against this arrangement. I will have to manage that money well, since the owner never pays me on time.
Nothing is the same there, since most of my regular customers either moved, or went to jail. Even Josh doesn’t stop by anymore. He is now living in Oregon, where he was born and raised. Goodbye, obsessive friend. That’s one less person, I no longer have to fashion sweet phrases for, while we kiss.
Oh, I could never stop myself from kissing anyone that desires me. It isn’t enough to do that. Out of my control, without much feeling, I begin to speak of the passion I feel for them, when it is rarely ever true. I suppose I was born to tell stories.
My panic attacks are always there, right beneath the surface. They are present when I drive, producing such colorful and realistic images of car crashes, that I can almost hear the noise that would accompany a collision. A dark night will create the illusion that streets are never ending. Suddenly, I am in the abyss. I have died, and cannot recall how, only that I did. For this reason, I frequently have someone take me, and pick me up from work. Somehow, I am safe from death if someone is near. Anyone at all. Even a stranger can become the hero who fights off the Grim Reaper, if but for one more day. Irrational fears are made of cement.