stuff

Being back in Canada is underwhelming. My life is currently consumed with thoughts of stuff. Stuff to buy, stuff to deal with, kid's stuff, stuffed chicken. You see, I'm on a working holiday - a ridiculous term. I'm sure every waitress thinks, "I'm beyond this. I'm special." I'm thinking, "Eff you guys. You think this is my life, serving you your 'my tuna's not done right, pinot grigio, I'll just have water, here's a $1.17 tip'. But that's in my head and it stays there. I'm doing this hateful job because I need cash. I resent that I need cash. I resent being in a place where you're constanly marketed to. I hardly shopped in Addis. But here, everything's made out to be a deal. Where and when did that start? A ploy - as if only a sucker passes up a perceived deal. It's garbage and life is garbage. And I had a horrible table tonight who stiffed me out a tip because they were nearly impossible even though I was so pleasant. Because I'm nice and I need that money because I don't live here, I live elsewhere and it's a crazy life when you stop to think about it or someone asks you what are you doing after the summer? Going back to school? No, I live "abroad", well in Africa really, Ethiopia to be more specific. And how did I end up there? The love. So I'm beyond this. I'm special.