Thou Shalt Eat Hotdogs

I got a job.

That’s right; I am officially a certified Normal Person.  I wake up at reasonable times, go to bed at reasonable times, eat at reasonable times, reasonably time reasonable times, time thyme seasoning reasonably, etc.  No more serenading the fridge and karate chopping inanimate objects, no no.  My days of awkward and bizarre are now OVER.  That’s what happens when you get a job, right?

Despite my anarchist persona punching my face for following the common man’s path and working for a corporation (the supposed root of all evil), I quite enjoy working.  The coworkers are nice, the hours aren’t too shabby, the pay is fantastic, and the work itself is supposed to be easy.  For the common man.  Which I am not.  The fact that I am almost literally a fish out of water (This is a good metaphor for me because I am 97.1% sure I was a mermaid in my past life) in public does little to aid me in my quest to bequeath customers with delightful confectioneries.

If you guessed that I am a food-wielding prostitute, you’d be wrong.  But close.  Rather, I am (drum roll) a FOOD DEMO PERSON.  I’m pretty sure that’s my official title.  Anyway, the mechanics of the job are simple.  Take food out of container.  Place food on plate.  Customer takes food.  It’s the whole “interact with other members of the human species” bit that is a little difficult for me at times.  Sometimes my brain’s all “#NormalSwag, #PimpinCheesePuffs” but mostly its just me acting like I’m too busy wiping up non-existent spills to grant my fellow human beings with the holy knowledge of All Things Hotdogs.  ITS THEIR GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO KNOW ABOUT HOTDOGS, DAMMIT.  But alas, the irrational fear that the customer is going to reach over the table and bite my nose never leaves me.

I’ll get better.  That’s what they tell me, anyway.  I just have to keep the self-expectation to a minimum and the sunshine-filled smiles to a maximum.  If I’m completely failing in public, I might as well do it cheerfully.

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