I’m washing dishes in the back of the kitchen of your local franchise restaurant. I have been thinking about how up front their tipping, I’m as broke as this water is hot. Which is burning my fingers, they’re red, white and disfigured, and the dishes just keep piling up. My direct superior thinks that I’d work inferior with the extra change weighing me down. You know if I got paid per dish I’d be wealthy and rich, it wouldn’t matter that it looked like i just drowned. Instead I get stickers for good behavior stuck the the back of the refrigerator just so everyone can see how well I’ve done. I’m a dishwasher. I hate my fucking job. Then they bent me over turned me round and made me drown. The fruit flies are breading and I have been breathing them deep inside of my lungs. The chemicals to get rid of them cause me pain it’s inconceivable, I am bleeding and crying out blood. If I don’t tell health and safety I might get a raise maybe or at least listen to music at work. Eight hours in the dish pit, they call me a dish bitch. Eight hours, eight hours I would like a shower. So tell me when the garbage bag falls from the bin because it makes a big old mess and has a simple solution. Wont you stack the dishes, I need organization or else the dishes will fall upon me and cut open my skin.