the endless appeal of the coffin nail

I defy anyone who has quit smoking to get a job in the restaurant industry and see if they can manage to stay quit. I couldn't do it; the pull back to it is too strong. For one thing, almost everybody smokes. Proportionately, the incidence of nicotine addiction in the industry is absurdly high, and if you're an uneasy quitter, you've got maybe two weeks of willpower and then you're fucked. Because it's the only time you get to take breaks, you see, and maybe you hate it and it makes you nauseous and lightheaded and your mouth tastes gross, but you get to sit down for five minutes and ignore the endless requests for glasses of water (more on my deep loathing for the words "We'll have a round of waters" later) and menus and shots of Jager (see previous parenthetical) and books of matches.

Oh, also: The costume was a hit. Predictably, the short shorts went over very well, and no one tried to blow the whistle. I blew it for last call -- "Last call, bitches!" -- and then I spent five minutes ignoring the customers and dancing with Kai to the Dixie Chicks. Fun, fun night.