Chantix Update and Why I Don't Talk to You

Okay, so I stopped taking the Chantix. I tried. I promise you, I really tried. But that shit just wasn't for me. It turned me in to some kind of Stepford resturant worker, who was prone to emotional outbursts, cried if someone was uppitty with me and sobbed at ASPCA commericals (Sarah Mclachlan, as much as I love her music, will from now on, will only remind me of sad puppies). Actually, that probally had nothing to do with the Chantix. I sob like a little bitch at those commericals anyway. But people that think they are better than servers/bartenders just piss me off and can go fuck themselves, so I was damned if I was going to take any type of drug that let assholes like that get to me. The real dealbreaker for me was when my parents straight up told me to flush that shit, I knew I had too. Also when the #1 staff homosexual tells you that you need to quit it, you listen. Because who knows better that you are just not acting like your fabulous bitchy self than the staff homosexual? So Chantix didn't work for me. I really do want to quit, if anyone out there knows of some voodoo cure for nicotine addiction that doesn't change your entire personality and turn you into a batshit crazy wingnut, I'm all fucking ears. Seriously.
But on to other things. Now that I can think for myself and have restored some sense of mental clarity, I gotta something to bitch about (It's so good to be back to myself). Tonight I was on the floor and I was first in, so early on, I got kinda slammed. No biggie there. I can handle my shit and I was on my game. In the middle of said slam, a two top (older businessmen, who explained they traveled alot and had been in town only a week) sat at table 33 and I started talking to them. Usually (okay, never) I'm not a big bullshitter with my tables, polite and professional, yes but not a whole lot of blahfuckingblah. Here's your food, eat it, pay your fucking check, tip me, come back again, get the fuck out. Everybodys happy.
But one of these guys looked just like Joe Kennedy (JFK's fucked-up dad) and had the accent to match. I've kinda obsessed with the who Camelot image of the Kennedys and how under it all they are all kinds of fucked up. That and the whole Kennedy curse shit too, I just find it interesting. I also love the fact that Jackie O was a chain smoker and not many people know that. And she was a pretty classy bitch, so it makes me feel like less of a lepper for my own one vice. So I mention how this guy looked and talked like Joe Kennedy and somehow the ball started rolling in me actually taking time out of refilling iced tea and fetching "nakkins", to get into an actual conversation. What the fuck was I thinking? I should have known better. Wasn't it Julia Roberts who said that she never kisses clients on the lips because it is just too personal. I get it now, Pretty Woman. I really do.
 I had a ton of other tables, but I spent a good deal of time talking to this particular table and we got into some pretty neat discussions that led to other deeper discussions. And, no, I wasn't annoying them by running my fucking mouth while they were eating (as some people do). They kept calling me back over every chance they got. And not to get them shit, either. But to continue our discussion. They were from up north and kept going on about how much they loved my accent and when I left they made it a point to tell me how great it had been talking to me. And I had actually enjoyed the conversation too because it's always good to let people know that servers aren't dumbasses who can't get a "real job" and can hold our own in intelligent convo with the motherfucking best of them.
Now, while I had an assload of other tables, everybody got great service, although I probally could had paid more attention had I not been so chatty with my new friends at 33. But whatever. Everyone took care of me come tip time even though I didn't find out were they were from or what the fuck they thought about anything.
Now me, who, as I mentioned, usually doesn't bullshit alot, was under the impression that this table enjoyed their experience and was greatful for someone besides each other to talk too. (They were in town on business, just the two of them and had been stuck together for a week). So imagine my surprise when every single one of my other tables left more (% wise) than these two chatty fuckfaces. What the fucking fuck?!?
Maybe I'm wrong but if it seems like you want to be my goddam Facebook Friend after I waited on your ass, I would think you would throw down a little extra since we are now all chummy and shit. Maybe I'm wrong. Wait, no "maybe", obviously I was completly fucking deadass wrong.
I've read some other biz bloggers who have said they did their own little experiments on this and that tables they weren't really friendly with, tipped better than those you got all human with (unless you fail to mention their adorable newborn, then you get a passive agressive little note along with your cc receipt).
So, this is why I'm not talking to anymore of my fucking tables beyond the duties that are expected of me. Fuck it. I can't win. And I'm personallu pissed off at those two fuckers.
I discussed my graduate studies with them-hint, hint motherfuckers, I'm a struggling student (they asked). Don't you remember, table 33, when we talked about the creepy Kennedy-Lincoln similarities? Did it mean nothing to you when I suggested all of those great antique stores my town is famous for? What about when we made fun of each others accents? We had some good laughs. I just don't understand. I thought we had something special. But, *sigh*, I see now, I meant nothing to you, table 33. I was just another waitress to you, wasn't I, table 33? Probally just one of hundreds you talk to as traveling business dickheads. Oh, table 33, how you broke my heart.
So, fuck you table 33. How dare you make me think that being interested in our conversation would be appreicated. I should have known better. My bad. Lesson learned. And I'm totally decining your Facebook request.