The first thing a waiter or waitress starts off with is the drink. It’s a tell-tale affair, it really is; you see who’s cheap, who’s going to be civil, who’s going to get plastered, and who’s going to pay your bills for the next month and a half. I think the beverage judgment to be an incredible injustice. My drink of choice happens to be water, no ice, no lemon, no straw. Water in a glass. I’d like to think that I’m not cheap; I’ve always despised carbonated drinks and I don’t drink alcohol, so I might as well stick to what I know is good for me. That’s all. Immediately after I inform my server of this, however, it’s as if someone’s taken a sharpie to my forehead and written “stingy” in ugly, bold handwriting.

I really think this is unfair.

The next time I go out I will state my regular brew of choice, slam the menu on the table and chant, in all my Ebonic glory, Ricki Lake style, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!”