Time to blow this job

I just quit my job at the restaurant.

A customer threw breadcrumbs in my face. I retaliated with a hair pull and accidentally removed a patch of Secret Hair, made famous by Jose Eber in the mid-80's. It had already come dislodged and was hanging off of her ear, so I plucked it and dropped it into her salad. She was quiet after that, I guess she knew she had it coming after deliberately picking a bitchfight with a me, a frazzled gay waiter simply because I didn't have any English Breakfast teabags. So my wig maneuver shut her (California Pizza) Piehole quick. There wasn't much of a scene, but nevertheless, I took the deep shame and embarassment of my bad behavior as a sign to keep moving on and quit this job after my shift was over. That was the absolute final straw. There was an intensity to my hushed voice as i spoke to everyone that evening, and I found that my last night of work was as pleasant as can be. I even did the unthinkable and wiped up the floor of the back kitchen with 5 pieces of bread that were delivered it to the table of a has-been television producer from the late 70's and his family, who visit often and don't believe in tipping.

Truth is, that was a horrible thing to do, but I wasn't sure how to enact revenge on these people who had used me as fish food time and again, simply because I needed the work. I knew that this was my opportunity to crawl into the deep gutter they had dug for me, and indulge my adolescent tendencies despite tiny pangs of guilt. The manager who had written me up several times, (once, even framing me) was incredulous when I told him that I was leaving. As I did my final evening check out, he asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Sure I'm sure, you jackass." I said.