Today I have to follow a waiter around at Red Rock and "observe." I can handle that. However, I can't handle the mass of questions I'm going to be asked by customers. "I don't know, ask my trainer." I've got that response down pat. My manager told me yesterday to practice my greet so that I'd be fluent in restaurant conversation. I've never had a problem talking to people until today. I have that nauseating feeling in my stomach. My heart starts beating quickly. Oh, how I hate dread.

My artificial tan is coming along quite nicely. Hopefully the customers will notice my skin tone instead of the glazed, confused look on my face. Shit, I really must stop thinking about it. DREAD. DREAD. DREAD. YOU'RE GOING TO DROP SOMETHING. A CUSTOMER WILL CALL YOU STUPID. PEOPLE WILL LAUGH AT YOU. YOUR HAIR WILL LOOK LIKE CRAP. BWHAHAHAHA. Where is my middle school guidance counselor when I need her?

In part two of the "lower school dream" series, last night's dream took place in a Christian sports camp/prison. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Poole (may she rot in Hell), informed me that I was to be executed that night. All my friends told me to forget trying to escape. I contemplated either running away (and for the rest of my life) or trying to talk some sense into Mrs. Poole. I think my dream evolved into another dream in which I was really late for work. More peyote, anyone?