thoughts by Dalyce, two am (or near enough as makes no matter)
I’m setting a personal record the same day my son is diagnosed with cerebral palsy. My best night thus far has been 575 in seven hours; I’m hoping for 8 in 8.
No amount of money can make my son an able-bodied boy, I know. None of the king’s horses and zero of his men.
He is’t broken, of course. He knows nothing else and smiles like any other boy, cries too.
Money really doesn’t mean a mummer’s fart. But it will help me care for him, that it will. Still, it doesn’t mean much.
It is nice to have good company at work, for a change, and making money usually feels good in some capacity.
Did I mention I have this horrible, super charming cough and one of my amazing tippers had a cigar in my face for about 20 straight inutes?
I don’t hate him for it, he apologized after all and handed me over 100$ in tips. I usually hate them for it, even when they do tip. I’m a human, after all. It’s inhumane to blow smoke in a person’s face, and on this matter, my opinion will never waver.
What about that time I had to pick lice out of those two French snots? Jules and Tom they were, and Cecile, their mother, told me I was too high maintenence for being grossed out by such a trifle.
“There are so many worse things to have in zee life,” she assured me.
She wasn’t wrong.
I was still entitled to cringing at the task. It was still horrible.
If I could choose, lice from the French brats’ heads or a child without cerebral palsy? Well, that’s tough. I don’t want to change my son, you see. But for his sake, well, I suppose you know what I would choose.
It’s still okay to think the lice are gross, and the kids’ whose heads they inhabit.
It’s okay to hate cigarette smoke, too.
It’s still okay.
*edit, I made 630 in 8 hours. RIP 800 but still a PR.
