Delivery for a one Mr. Fuckface

A-hole: “It sounds broken.” Ace: “Most likely, sir.” (Photo by Gavin on Unsplash)

No.

When I came through the door, I didn’t say “Hi ya doin?” because I care.

I didn’t ask “Hi ya doin?” because I want to know.

I asked “Hi ya doin?” because it’s a fuckin courtesy.

I don’t give a fuck how you really are. I’m faking it, okay? Fuh-fuh-fuh-faking it.

Like I said, it’s a fuckin courtesy. A ritual performed with the hope of stimulating some fuckin life into your corpse-like presence behind this fucking counter.

Do I expect you to tell me how you’re actually doing?

Fuck no. And you shouldn’t!

But I DO expect you to make some kind of fuckin noise that fuckin acknowledges me asking you a fuckin a question, instead of fuckin staring at me without saying a fuckin word. Fuckin. Courtesy.

You ask what you’re supposed to do when someone asks how you’re doing?

Lie, fuckface.

You’re supposed to lie and say: “Good.”

No matter how you are, no matter what’s going on — even if it hurts — just say “Good.”

It’s good for you, it’s good for me, it’s good for your miserable fuckin business if you say “Good.” It’s good for all of us! Just. Fucking. Lie.

Oh, you don’t believe in that?

Of course you don’t fuckin believe in that. WHY WOULD YOU? That would make this interaction FAR too fucking EASY.

Jeez, you’re fuckin mirthless. Anybody ever tell you that?

Mirthless. Joyless. A big fuckin drag.

Ugh. Never mind. Just sign here.

By the way, I’m doing great.

Thanks for asking.

Fuckface.