So Ricky's been reading my blog. Everybody Wave! Hi Ricky! Thank you so much for showing an incredible disregard to my right to privacy. Thanks so much for not even trying to curve your curiosity just a little so that I might be able to express my self honestly in one way. Such a freaking sweetie, I know.

Yesterday, as I was leaving, he shouts "Rachael, don't like boyfriends who smoke!". I stop in front of him to shoot a glance of morbid curiosity and hatred, silently demanding an explanation. "Just random advice. Fun, huh?” he says. Wow, he has all the intellectual subtlety of a blind man performing brain surgery with a chainsaw, doesn't he?

I'm not trying to be rude, I'm simply endeavoring to tell him how offended I am. And since he'll never own up to reading my blog, I can insult him all I like and he can't retaliate. So, Ricky: knock yourself out, kid. I don't care. If I really have anything juicy that you would want to know, I'll write it then make my blog private. Schmuck...

So, now that we have concluded with our "Rant about family" section of this ever-faring blog, let's go onto "Rant about job " section. Should be fun!

Yesterday was just tiring. We were unbelievably busy, and Travis was lead and Britnee was desk. Bad combination, bad, bad combination. I find them to be lacking at each of their jobs, so when paired together on the busiest night of the week, havoc and chaos dominate the noble foundation known to us as the Old Spaghetti Factory. I was so frustrated. Not only that, but our two newest hostesses were the other floor hosts. What twit thought up last night's schedule? We were on a 20 minute wait, yet half the restaurant was empty. I tried to keep my section full, as an attempt to input a redeeming quality into the views of hostesses held by the rest of the restaurant, but every time I would ask for a table, I wouldn't get it. I was so mad:

"Travis, call me a four"
(three and a half minutes later, I get my four)

"Where you going with this, Rach?"

"8.4"

Vikki: “No, wait. I need a four up in 17, it's nearly empty."

So, of course, I go up there and there is ONE table empty. ONE! Stupid over-achieving hostess...

I am truly sorry about all the complaining that is going on here. This must be incredibly hard to read, but I'm so frustrated right now. I got into girls state, though. I'm leaving the last week of school, and Elisse made it, too. It will be fun. Not really compensation for the rest of my day being intolerable, though. This however, was:

I had to run back to school to grab my physics book. I didn't mind; the day was pleasant and I adore the way a cool March breeze folds over my skin, energizing me. I toddled a bit, approaching the school 15 minutes after departure. There, standing by the front door, was NZ. He was smoking, leaning debonairly against the wall, ignoring those around him. He looked up every once in a while, but seemed thoroughly bored. Smoke curled around his face, rising from a mouth that seemed so correct and appropriate. He tilted his head back, displaying his ample neck, blowing smoke into the wind and watching it float away. His long, dark eyelashes flitted about with every glance he threw while talking.

I was quite wrong. NZ reigns over my thoughts, as fervent and strong as ever.