Nobody talks about *this*.
Not the 12-hour shift. Not the aching feet. Not the customer who made eye contact as they sneezed *into* their hand before handing you their cash.
No.
I’m talking about the real horror:
💩 Holding in a dump for *seven* hours.
I am clenching.
I am sweating.
I am praying to gods I don’t believe in.
What if I go and someone walks in?
There’s no one else here. I am the front of house. I am the barista. I am the dishwasher. I am the prisoner.
They’ll come in and be like “hello?”
And I’ll be in the staff toilet—mid-relief—drenched in shame and espresso sweat, whispering: “please don’t leave... I’ll be out in a minute...” as my soul escapes my body. (I with that was the case)
I have an hour left.
Sixty minutes of cheek clench cardio.
I am barely holding on bro. But I’m holding it.
Please clap. Or pray. Or just... bring me a stool softener and a cover shift.














