No pizza tastes this good

Flying Pie Pizza, my latest greatest source of income, opened their store up this week.  And has had ridiculous amounts of customers.  One of my managers, soon to be part-owner, told me that he had worked 110 hours that week.  Wow.  I can’t even get my head around that.  And this would all be fine, except that I end up busting my ass, along with all my other coworkers, to take care of the clients, who are all disgruntled anyway because they have to wait almost 1 1/2 hours for a pizza.  No joke, that was the wait time last night.  I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t say anything, I would end up stuck at the register for 6 hours straight, with no break, because my managers have completely forgotten about me while trying to get eighty zillion other things done.  Josh keeps reassuring me that it will die down, and that they’re trying to take care of us, but I don’t really see it.  And none of the other people that work there are asking for breaks, because, well, I’m not completely sure why.  But all I know is that after 4 straight hours of being treated like a non-human piece of machinery put into high-speed, I start to break down.  Physically, mentally, emotionally, I have reached my limits several times this weekend.  And although I feel weak and selfish asking for my ten-minute breaks, and actually leaving when my schedule says I’m off…well, I’d rather be weak and selfish than the alternative.  It’s hard to stop, though, when I see everyone working their asses off, and when I know that I could really use the extra cash.  But let’s see, how does the commercial go…?  A night’s wages plus tips: $87.  The chance to read a great book quietly in bed: priceless. (PS This is my activity of choice (mostly) for this Saturday night.)  Condemn me if you will, I have no regrets.