That’s it, folks. With the absence of my name on this week’s schedule at the restaurant, I have officially turned in my burrista badge and turned my face to the bright and even more broke future of a historian. But, allow me a moment to play Lot’s wife. I’m only human, after all, and I cannot help but look back. (So it goes.)
I often find myself reading old Facebook status updates, comparing them to lines in George Washington’s diaries. He didn’t write full entries. He basically wrote eighteenth-century tweets–mundane, glib bullshit that no one should really ever care about. “Bought boots today. Should pay tab soon? #inflation #postcolonialprobs” Yet, we use his diaries to inform our interpretations of his life. I used his diaries to write a paper on camp followers during the American Revolution. “Too much ‘baggage’ #bitchesbecray #raining(wo)men” So, when I think of how people read GW’s stuff, I can’t help but be overcome with a certain prospecting vanity: what if someone someday interprets my social media burps and applies them to greater historical themes?
To be honest, if I ever become famous enough for that to happen, scholars of me would probably be disappointed. My most popular updates are depreciating yet quirky and best read in the cadence of Zooey Deschanel’s smokey, spaced out contralto. They’re unreal and superficial, yet they come from a place of real living. They say I’m dissatisfied with my life, sure, but at least I can still laugh at it. A lot of the time, people don’t get it. They’ll ask me if I’m okay, or they’ll give me a long, sad look and say my name meaningfully. Maybe once I’ve written a book and made millions, everyone will be in on the joke. It’s just how I see my life, guys. Let me have this!
I started working at Agave in late August last summer. It was a dark time. Literally. I was stumbling out of the restaurant at 3:30am some nights, bidding a fond farewell to the “morning person” moniker I’d clung to so hard during college. I’d hear birds heralding the sun before I even finished brushing my teeth. Street lights would flicker. But it was a funny time, too. Like soldiers laughing at the bullet suddenly lodged safely in the Bible they always keep over their heart, we laughed at Agave. We laughed a lot, in fact, and it was that laughter that pulled me through this weird, uncontrollable dive into adulthood. I met amazing people. I ate good food. I learned new skills. I flirted. I farted. I updated my Facebook.
And that’s where things get really weird, because if people someday are going to be treating these updates as some sort of literary phenomenon, I’m almost afraid of the depth they’ll uncover from something like this:
And, then there’s this, which has “Jezebel article” written all over it:
But, most importantly, when we say goodbye to Jen’s adventures working at Agave, we are also singing our sweet sayanoras to Cute Agave Boy, the phantom sex god that periodically graced my burrito line. Let’s all take a few minutes to ponder the most intriguing plot line in this saga, and lament that the network pulled funding for the program before a neat ending could be filmed. What does Cute Agave Boy represent? He represents delusion, the enteral quest. (Germans use the verb “streben.”) He represents the potential of the future–the potential to be happy, the potential to love and be loved, the potential to keep reaching higher. So, raise your glass to burritos and the boys who eat them, and enjoy this final look back on a weird year.
Dear Cute Agave Boy:
Will you miss me? If you are reading this letter, I am sitting a parking lot away, in the basement of a historical home. Do not try to find me. We do not allow sodas here. It’s over between us. Hush, now, you’ll be fine. It was over before it even began. We both knew that. I hope your colored hipster pants find love.
The Girl Who Tried To Seduce You That One Time
That’s it. That’s all. Closing time. In the wise words of Semisonic, “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” This year is over; here’s to the next.