Last.Damn.Call

Have any skeletons in your closet? I do. Not as many I used to. I want to help you mold all those bones into one BIG-ASS scary skeleton. Now, take a tiny bone. Maybe a pinky finger. Make your peace, confess a wrong, admit a fault, apologize to someone, ask for forgiveness. Give that bone a proper burial. Say all the things you need to say. Wish it well. Say a prayer. Lay it to rest. Don’t try to bury the whole damn thing at once. That’s too much. Too overwhelming. My name is Lindsey Cox, and I am a recovering alcoholic. Through my life experiences, exploration of trauma, a boat load of excuses for my past behaviors, and lots of research, I want to help you bury all those nasty bones that haunt you on a daily basis. Maybe on an hourly basis. The intention of this blog is to help you heal from whatever Boogeyman lurks in the darkest corners of your life. From your past. From your present. Haunts your dreams. We can be grave diggers together down a dark, murky path, where there is indeed light peeking through at the other end.

lindseymariecox2024@gmail.com

Showing Me Pictures of Your Whatever

We all love your family photos. Actually, that’s a lie. I really don’t need to see this really cute picture of your granddaughter. The one of her with her eyes closed looking like she just smelled a rank-ass fart. I just don’t. Especially not when I am waiting tables. I don’t need the extra wasted time of you trying to fumble through your flip phone and then trying to figure out how to get to your pictures to show me one of someone I will probably not meet in this lifetime. I am sorry. I just don’t have the desire or the time. Or the will to care. Or the energy to pretend to care.

Same with your pets. I don’t really love pets. Now, let me clarify before you send me a bunch of hate mail with photos of your cat dressed in a Halloween costume. Pets are fine. I like my dog. But there is no need for me to distract you with pictures of him for any reason whatsoever. Same goes for you. I am sure your animal is adorable and you’d be unable to live without it. But when I am flying around trying to work as fast as humanly possible, it is just an annoyance for you to stop me to make me pretend to say I think your animal is cute. Just stop.

Pictures of the menu. What? Your order doesn’t look exactly like the one of the fake foods placed in just the right lighting and angles by professional photographers? Shocker. Your real food is probably being made by some teenager who hates life and is hanging on to this job by a thread. No, we don’t spend hours on plate presentation. It’s edible, isn’t it? That’s what matters. I don’t know who in the hell invented non-edible garnishes, but shame on you. Do you know how many idiots try to eat those things? And then get mad at me for not letting them know they are made of plastic? Oh, my bad. Eye roll.

Funny memes. Oh, yes, we all love a funny meme of a cat looking pissed or of some idiot dancing a celebration dance of some sorts. You know what memes people like to stop me from doing my job to show me? Memes of waitresses doing shitty waitressing things. I don’t need to see it, buddy. I. Am. Living. It. So, I smile and laugh as genuinely as I can. All in hopes for that big cash tip in the end. I can’t even differentiate my fake laugh from my real one sometimes when I am at work.

This is an incomplete chapter to the book I am currently working on. Hope you enjoyed it:)

lindseymariecox2024
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