Don't Get Snippy and Don't Fight Back

Sunday Brunch often feels like war. Customers saunter in either out of it because they partied so hard the night before, or sad and bitter because they didn't go out for a good time the night before and now it is too late (their life sucks, they feel lonely, time is wasting, and it is practically Monday). Either way they are ready to be served on hand and foot...feel they deserve it because heck that chick gets $3.90/hour plus 10-20% in tips...she can bring me more toast and jam whenever. And heck I paid $2 for this coffee that bitch had better refill it even if I have to flag her down and yell "sarah" across the crowded dining room. "because I deserve that 7th cup"

The men in the Kitchen keep yelling FUCk like the world is really trying to screw them specifically and no one else. After everyone leaves the ladies get sat down for a few pointers, "If you get yelled at by the kitchen do not get snippy, do not yell back...it doesn't help matters."

While riding my bike home in a busy intersection a red GMC suv in front of me decides to give a girl getting into a cab a lecture on how to open doors correctly. He parks during the green light and I ask him to move, along with all the honking horns behind us. He says, "I didn't ask you. So mind your own business you fat fuck."

I want to throw my bike down pull him out of the car by the shoulders and say "OK fag brows and ugly ass hair plugs. This is it. Don't call me fat, because I'm not. I don't care if you're wearing a diamond earing on the left." Maybe I'd headbutt him with my stupid bike helmet finally making itself useful, definitely punch him in the stomach and maybe break his nose.
Instead I slipped through traffic between cars and rode home wondering where all my aggression came from. The worst part was I caught myself wishing I was a man so I would get more respect.