My finger lazily circles the rim of my glass as I sit in the back room, staring blankly at the massive mess before me. Garbage cans full of bread and spag, bags containing every kind of filth imaginable, and cardboard boxes litter the floor around me, composing the immaculate atmosphere that has become employee dining at OSF. I was grossed out at first, but eating in the dark with the trash is an everyday occurrence for those who labor at the spagfac, thus I have adapted and don’t know what I would do with myself if I came one day to find a clean back room. My break is stupid; dumb labor laws have made sure to inconvenience me in any way possible. I feel terrible about this outlook, really I do; child labor in the past was abominable, I’m thankful this country has done something about the calamity. But I’m not going to deny that having to take a break every 5 hours sucks. I’d rather work and get paid then sit in the back, pathetically eating my spumoni while my eyes linger tenaciously on the clutter surrounding me. It does give me time to think though, I’ll give you that. While slowly fiddling with my food I allow my mind to glaze over the occurrences of the day, my eyes lolled back, my demeanor sloppy. I’m sure the managers suspect I use this time to strategically shoot up in the bathroom and then proceed to enjoy my high talking to the garbage; I phase completely out, only to wake once my thirty minutes of unremitting stupor have silently slipped by. Sometimes I don’t remember what thoughts and amusements run through my head, other times I dwell on them until the next day and beyond. I always remember the feeling, however, of immobility and incongruous stillness. It feels odd to have bussers and servers and hosts run about you, rushing to their food and yelling for follows and pick-ups, while you sit in a trance that borders on a coma. I don’t know if I like such a feeling, but I suspect I spend much more time in the unbefitting state then I think.

I stare at the cracks in the ceiling as my mind mulls over my actions today. Today I had a talk about religion with NZ and this boy we’ll call S. NZ is sexy, but I’m afraid he strikes me as a wee bit dim at times. Its funny that he comes across as so open minded yet hardly debates as such. He felt no need to support what he was saying and kept handling certain technicalities and personal beliefs as fact when, in any light, they were opinion. “But that’s stupid; the God head is one being.” He would roll his eyes at certain remarks he didn’t agree with, and then fallaciously inform me that I was wrong and fail to offer an explanation. I was disappointed. I think that he’s smart, and yet I stand overwhelmed by this outlandish folly exuded by him. S was nice about it, and politely disagreed. I think I like the boy- he’s adorable and so very very sweet. He’s funny, too. Why, oh why, does he have to smoke a chart-topping amount of pot a day? Elisse thinks I’m “playing” him. I’m not sure what she means by such a statement, because I’m afraid I don’t correspond with the conventional definition of a player at all. Yes, I’m nice to the boy and I esteem him and his beliefs, I flirted with him today. I like him, but I hate the fact that he’s a stoner. A very big stoner. This boy smokes a TON of weed. I still adore him, though.

I shrug and look down at my spumoni. The spumoni has begun to melt, the small portion of the ice cream that is still somewhat frozen bobs on the top of the melted cream, lulling about in the multi-colored pottage. I gape at the paste, stupidly wondering why anyone would ever dream of making pistachio ice cream. What an absurd idea. Huh. After school I didn’t do much at all. I came home, played some sims. I love that game. I’m building this house that is absolutely divine, I can’t wait to finish it. I never actually “live” in that game. Once I’ve finished the house I kill the inhabitants and leave the house standing as a lonely landmark to the career I have yet to begin. I do hope I become an architect. How absolutely corking that would be.

Mindlessly I glance down at my watch, realizing I have 30 seconds left of my break. This takes just a second to register, the realization slowly dawning on me. Forcefully I climb out of my buoyant reverie, peeking back to skim over the fruits of this session, which are now swimming lackadaisically in the palpable reality of my lunacy. I let the smallest of smiles escape from my tired lips, my eyes twinkling at my quirky mannerisms. I pick of my tray, drop my barely-touched spoon into the tub and return to work.