Blueberry Hill

Dear table 56,

Fuck you.

You seemed so nice. You came in from the Blueberry Festival, all hot and sweaty, making jokes, having a good time. I got you our special blueberry creme bruleé and blueberry margaritas; you called me your blueberry girl. You also told me I looked like Famke Janssen, which I don't, but thanks all the same. Then you proceeded to make jokes about my special mind powers. I laughed, you laughed. Good time.

You left me $8 on a $99 ticket. What. The fuck.

This angers me even more than the first time I was stiffed. That comes out to less than minimum wage, when you do the math. I shall now be more apt to expect better tips from bitchy customers than the sweet, congenial ones. The fact that a really nice 16 top left me 25% later that night is beside the point.

Go choke on all those blueberries,
Sparks

P.S. Fuck you.