This Starving Artist Could Serve You Some Cheese With Her Whine

Dear Shoes,

Hello.

You're flat.

...Very.

I've just spend the past 11.5 hours running around in you, slinging bloody marys/pizza/eggs/pizza/sangria/mimosas/pizza/pizza/beerbeerbeerbeerbeer--and whereas I'm thoroughly appreciative of the wad of cash that you just helped to deposit for my (hopefully "not as" for too much longer...)broke ass, I'm tired.  And I hurt a little.

It's just a statement.  I won't really complain.  I actually like the job.  A lot.  I do.

However.

I can't help but think that as I'm running around this restaurant for all of these minimally make-upped Park Slope-mommies in their Tory Burch-flats (which also might not be conducive to running around in for 11.5 hours, but DAMN they're cute!) that I want to like qualify what I'm doing.

I would love to occasionally--while being sweet and providing both sugar highs for the young and tipsy happiness for the...older--look at these people and say Hey there.  Hey.  So, I do hope that you're having a good time, and enjoying yourselves and everything.  Let me know if you're not.  But.  I just wanted to let you know:

I don't really do this.

I mean, I do, but this is just my day-job.

I'm actually an actor.  (And then I'd stop myself because I'd realize how 100%-cliche that sounds...and I'd get all embarrassed and back-track.)   

I do stuff.  I actually shot with HBO a week ago.  (And then I'd realize that they were the kind of family who never watched TV...except for CNN and National Geographic and Baby Einstein-DVDs for their elitist ridiculously high-IQd two year-olds who would be at that moment boring holes through my head with their huge huge eyes as if to say "Lady, you're weird, and why is your hair so big?")

Ummm. ...

I have this manager, actually, and he's really great, and I'm actually signing a contract with him this week.  Which is great.  Which is really great, actually. So that's, like, legit.  (...)  I'm legit.  Kind of.  ... (...) I'm not.  But, I'm working on it. 

...
"Can we get that Brownie Dee-Luxe now?"
Yep, sure thing.

Blargh.

I am certainly thoroughly very very very aware that this job is a means to an end (Clearly.  In my interview, my boss asked me "OK, so what do you want to be when you grow up?").  And that's great, and that's fine.  And it's not that I'm not patient--frankly, this bitch is insanely patient.  I am, if I do say so myself.

...I just get antsy on occasion is all.

And maybe a little "proud", or something.

...Or maybe it's the opposite.  ...

Which is it?!  That whole feeling of Hey--you work on Wall Street?  At the UN-Plaza?  Well I don't!  But I am doing stuff, I swear! 

Nevertheless...well, whatever.

Thank you, Means to an End.  Thanks a lot, you're doin well for me, kid.  I apologize in advance if I don't act overly appreciative or grateful all of the time--it's not you, it's me.

But, damn you, Shoes--you're all I've got and I'm plenty nice to you.

Return the freaking favor.

Thanks much,
Ange