Killing Yourself to Live

“You guys wouldn’t believe the last guy who came in here,” our waitress at Cracker Barrel said. She was rolling her eyes. “I’m just trying to get this guy to order, right? And we’re making small talk and I can tell he’s just ogling over me.”

“No way,” I say, smiling at my road trip buddy.

She poured us our coffee. “He was kind of a sad looking man, actually. Looked like he maybe hadn’t taken a shower in a couple of days. Really cocky guy, actually.”

“How so?”

“Well, right off the bat I can tell that he’s in LOVE with himself, or the idea of himself. I ask him what brings him through this area – you know, a standard question – and he starts talking my ear off about some roadtrip and obscure rock singers. I can tell immediately that he thinks I’m uncultured and stupid, just cause I don’t know who Greg Allman is. Any way, he talked on and on – I just wanted to get his order and get out of there!”

“Did you want us to order?” I asked.

She smiled, but continued her story.

“Wait, it gets better. So this guy is talking and talking, so I decide to blow his mind. I namedrop Kafka. And he LOSES it! I can tell he’s in love with me already. It’s really pathetic. I can tell right then what he thinks of women when he hears me say Kafka. He thinks it’s cute that I read a book. This surprises him. Honestly, it’s patronizing AF.

But I’m not gonna let him dictate the rest of this story. I’m not gonna let him eat his little meal and go back to his little hotel room thinking he’s the shit. So I namedrop a couple other things: One Hundred Years of Solitude, etc, etc.

Dude freaks out. He’s probably still thinking about me right now.”