Fast typing - "Mad Waitress"

It was a shit shift. You served a salmon roll to someone allergic.

Sat with simultaneous eight-tops, you cursed your lack of an addy.

The boss poked a chopstick into your cheek: smile, you look like a bitch.

You’re not the nicest waitress, your name pops up in more than a few one-star reviews.

Amazing how pissy people are when you tell them nobody gets refilled for free.

Leaving, you’re eaten by an old hole.

Craving a new one, you drive to the piercing studio, which is closed.

Inside, a girl mops up before she locks up; the shred of her, fluorescent-lit.

Whither will you speed next, mad waitress, who spent your break ten screaming in the walk-in?

To feel your self needs a scant teaspoon of pain, soul thrown back in your face; for example, the cook likes his nipples twisted.

He often says this to your chest.