Waitressing

The bartender keeps telling me to squish my breasts together and put them on the counter and he'll get my drinks quicker. Its funny at first (sort of...) but it becomes clear this is a truth around here. Its my second shift and all the waitresses keep giving me their ugly bits of wisdom; how to smile, offer water to the girls, remember what liquor is premium or select, ring in items and which tables are liable to walk out without paying, what clothes get more tips and how to BE NICE. I really don't want to be nice, I want to be mean. I don't like the way people are watching me, evaluating me, waiting for me to fuck up. Waiting to talk about me, a performer. I'm not a performer, yet here I am performing a stupid fucked up function. Slathered in fake. Absorbed in disgust.