Rex Curator

I get it, you moved to here hoping to create the future of your dreams. You followed passion, art, culture, and/or your girlfriend and embarked on a journey to discover your true self and shed the shackles of your false existence. Gone are the polos and boot cut jeans of the oppressor. Fading into obscurity are family dinners, first run movie theaters, and Two for Tuesday’s at Friday’s. You have been reborn, you are your own savior. You don yourself in laceless converse, stripped leggings, off the shoulder distressed sweater, and non prescription glasses. You stand for the dedication to your dreams with tattoos of dual track equalized portable radios, mockingbirds, and quotes in ribbon. And now you’ve entered my life. Not as a passer by, or the aroma of self-rolled American Spirit as I turn a corner. You are the one thing standing between me and my life necessity, my food. I call you ma’am, waitress, server, and ummmm hey you. I wave my hand, tap my fork, and sign impatiently. I’m not a jerk, really i’m not. I’m just hungry. And you are just lazy. I get it, your dream didn’t quite involve paying rent and you never imagined that it would cost $25 to put a half tank of gas in your 1988 Toyota Cresida. You also didn’t envision there would be so many other kindred spirits chasing the same dream. But here you are, and here I am forced together because you needed a job. A job that affords you to wake up at 10am after staying out all night watching that band that you wouldn’t like if other people liked them then waxing philosophically about the downfall of the industry that doesn’t have the balls to put out true music, real sounds, your art. And that job put you here with me, and I just want you to do your job. I’ve seen people with half your talent and aptitude do what you are failing, intentional or not, to do so I know you can do it. I just want you to find it within yourself to think of someone besides your self, and take my order. I’m not a jerk, I’m just hungry… and I get it.