I smile at old people for 8 hour chunks of time.

Yes, I enjoyed the Northwest very much. No, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. Today the red is hotter than the green. Yeah, working here is great. Sure, I'd love to freshen your decaf. Multigrain or sourdough? It's spelled r.a.n.i. True, it is kind of ironic living in Seattle and all. Bacon or sausage? Yeah, I'll tell my dad you say hello. Order in. Check for 7 please. Have a pretty afternoon.

You strange old humans, I don't know why you get a kick out of my saying no when you ask for a refill or a fork, but you do.

Also, dear humans, staring at me with your eyebrows wrinkled into your forehead doesn't make your enchiladas cook faster.

Ten percent might have been a generous tip back in your day so I won't resent you for this dollar fifty tip. I don't know if you get out much.

Good morning, Blue Moon Cafe. Your name is far more charming than your reality. Silverware scratching plates and mega oldies blaring in the hot kitchen. French fries on the floor and there may or may not be coffee grounds in my shoe. I think the cash register was born before me. Open, you tired machine printing faded receipts. No more playing tricks on me.