Before I start in about my crappy mood today, I forgot to mention yesterday that I pulled the biggest Staple Trick ever. The Staple Trick is this stupid thing I do for every new buser and occasionally every new server. It’s also something that I’m fairly certain I’m never going to do at Red Lobster, and I’m also fairly certain that it keeps me immune to tetanus (through exposure). The Staple Trick is simple. I find a decent stapler, a good Swingline is best, and proceed to put a staple somewhere into my skin. My personal favorite is the throat, just at the middle and slightly above of the clavicle. Recently, the stapler that I can find at Maria’s is a crappy one, so I have to put them into my arms after trying many times into the throat and failing at sinking a staple in.

Morgan really wanted to see the Staple Trick again, but the only stapler on hand is a kind that doesn’t open up. So, I tried to think of parts of me that I could put in-between the stapler and the piece of metal that causes the staple to fold. The first thing that came to mind isn’t going into a stapler. Ever. The second thing that came to mind did Friday night. The webbing between my index and middle finger served pretty good. Protruding from the far side of the webbing was the staple tines, making it, visually, the best Staple Trick ever. I had Micah, the other buser, pull out the staple with my Leatherman. He said “Ah, that doesn’t bother me,” manned up, and pulled it lose. He didn’t seem so keen on the situation after the blood started to run out of those holes. A surprising amount of blood pumps through a person’s webbing. I didn’t know that. Now I do.

So, I posted earlier about the morning/afternoon with Katie, which was good. Work wasn’t so good. Sometimes I get tormented. Christians read demons, psychiatrists read guilt, I read, I’m glad Red Lobster doesn’t know I get like this. Just some time at work I started to focus on mistakes… my mistakes, other people’s mistakes that don’t have any bearing on me, other people’s mistakes that do… Maria’s has a lot of ghosts for me. Most aren’t of other people. They’re my own ghosts. My own haunts. Sure… sure… sometimes I get in this sort of mood elsewhere, but at Maria’s sometimes it’s too easy. I remember all the secrets I should never have told and I can think of all the secrets I should have shared. All the times I should have said something and didn’t, all the times I should have kept my mouth shut.

Marco came to the restaurant and he had his motorcycle. I let him in the back door. He said that he doesn’t get his motorcycle going fast enough and it doesn’t “blow the carbon out” or whatever. He said I could take it and get it going fast. My heart skipped a beat, this was a cusp, I could feel it. He asked me if I had ever ridden a motorcycle before. This was the cusp, I could feel the outcome of my response. The answer of “yes”, although a lie, would provide an escape. Maybe a harmful escape, but an escape. Fight or flee fight or flee fight or flee. No. No, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before. He told me some time he’d let me ride it around the campus parking lot. I might do that. Can’t feel up to looking forward to that right now, but I might.

As the night went on, it got worse and worse. I’ve got a very basic and simple coping mechanism for this situation, where I feel like lashing out or crying or screaming or just darting off, whatever I feel like doing that’s negative like that, when I’m around people that either I don’t want to hurt or are reliant on me, or in Maria’s case: both… I shut down. Withdrawal a big chunk of my consciousness and put this meat puppet on autopilot. It’s not like I’m watching my body from outside myself, I’m still in there, but I can look up and see what it’s doing… Check in on it. It doesn’t make eye contact, it gravitates towards environments that it likes, it barely talks and only really makes replies that it knows works Goulet!), and so forth.

The three things that staved off that mood briefly were these: cold/dark walk in cooler, one of my most favorite of environments, a healthy burst of flames into my face from the saute (goodbye eyelashes from the left eye), and the smell of sewage on the way home. Yes, I like the smell of sewage, not enough to live next to a fetid culvert, but I do. The sewage was on the way home, near the intersection of Underwood and Zane.

Now I’m going to get a shower, take out my contacts, lay down with the phone, and listen for Katie to call. I need some darkness, maybe I’ll sleep a tad before she calls. We’re going to watch The Mothman Prophecies.